


Solveig's Lied

by ArchieHabian



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Inspired by Music, M/M, Protective Newt Scamander, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, Soulmates, World War II in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2020-08-19 08:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20206666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchieHabian/pseuds/ArchieHabian
Summary: Newt has never allowed himself to suffer from the thought about not being able to find that special person to keep him company. In fact, he was never alone: the beasts were the purpose of his life, leaving him no time to think about any unfulfilled aspirations or Ensemble relationships. He could almost forget about this particular aspect of life, but now… Now there were decisions to make that didn’t affect him alone.A soulmate AU where Newt and Percival are trying to run away from destiny dictated by their heartsong.





	1. E.Grieg Suite No. 2, Op. 55 IV

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I owe my thanks to lonerofthepack who agreed to be a beta for this fic, and to ReelRoad, who helped me initially with the plot and writing (in another language) the first eight chapters some time ago.
> 
> I should warn you, that this is going to be a very long story with a somewhat (more so than not) unhappy ending. It might get sweet and fluffy at times, but please don't get your hopes too high up. 
> 
> Every chapter is named after a piece of music or a song and I highly encourage you to check it out. Not all songs sound 1920ish enough, but it's the general feel of them that matters, I guess. 
> 
> The first chapter's song is - https://youtu.be/MCtqZ2dtkws 

Percival Graves has had a melody since before he can recall. Exactly as he should: to the best of anyone’s understanding, the music was meant to guide lives like a circuitous arrow, sketching a path that might lead him to the other half of his Ensemble, his soulmate. The one and only person who could give the melody a true meaning, fill it with words, make it whole.

Played out, it was just a couple of notes at first. Sounds to be found in his toys, repeating until his mother planted him before her piano. Then, a string of single keys, and a single chord, not yet a motif. 

As he grew older, so did the music. It gradually grew with him, evolved and changed together with him. It took on new form, when he was eleven. His parents exchanged glances as the melody began repeating around some new element. And then there was school, and the melody evolved again and again, more complete, refined, and emotional each passing year. 

One chord and a string of notes. Then a full measure, two, and three. A string of chords, a motif. A refrain, a melody, a theme. A child growing, learning to be a man. 

Sometimes it echoed so loud and persistent in Percival’s head that he wanted to sing along, felt it press to his teeth and lips. As a child, he had, until he was asked about the words and couldn’t reply. Futile without knowing the words; and that was to let alone the fact that Percival could barely sing at all, didn’t have any tune in his bones but his own. He hummed the melody instead, letting the sound soothe the piercing feeling into something that made him believe the stories, made him believe that he truly would, eventually, meet the one who would sing it right. 

It was the way things worked, the way their world lived, filled with music and rhymed texts that always, almost, always found their match. Melody and Lyrical, brought together to make Song.

Still young, Percival imagined that once he graduated Ilvermorny, he would meet someone with the lyrics to his melody. Would it be at work, in the streets of New York or somewhere completely unfamiliar? Or it could happen even sooner: classmates came back from each summer, bright-eyed and singing, filling Ilvermorny with music. 

It never did.

So he told himself, patience. Wait. He was no hopeless romantic, worrying for his match like a sore tooth, but got on with it. Romance was distracting, even Ensemble relationships could be tumultuous. 

After all, he had a job he loved, he was climbing the career ladder faster than most. His teachers had liked to call that talent, called him a natural, like endless hours of practice was simply natural. His superiors said the same: he was a ‘gifted’ wizard. And a fiercely dedicated one, focused entirely on the task at hand. Better to build a life that he could offer alongside the melody, a career that could offer stability to the person he’d commit to. 

Years slide by; practice scales. Patience, wait.

Percival couldn’t say that he adored the sleepless nights spent uncovering the most intricate of crimes, but the mornings, when the excitement was draining from his muscles and his caught crook was sitting below in the cells, when they were all over, when the folders got shut and the case closed, as it thumped down onto his superior’s desk, the feeling was so rewarding, that he wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the whole world. It filled him up like nothing else did.

Music, always more compulsion than a proper hobby, was hard-pressed to compete — a slightly better sleep schedule wasn’t worth anything at all by comparison.

He worked.

Being so focused on his work, he had no time to worry about the music that was meant to shape his life and lead him to… he really hadn’t the foggiest idea where. Who. The melody didn’t exactly scream “an auror”, did it? Too restless. He couldn’t imagine giving up the city, his work. Couldn’t imagine that a soulmate wouldn’t have resented it, hundred-hour weeks at bizarre times.

So he played, when he thought to, on the big MACUSA piano in the conservatory, sometimes during breaks if he had them, sometimes late in the evening, just before heading back home. He tapped it, feeling the notes as a physical movement, against his desk, or wand, or anything available. The music remained with him through the years, through the dull grind and the horrifying savagery of the war, through the worst and best of times, no matter what happened, the music remained something that never changed.

A heartbeat, if hearts never raced: it didn’t change, but he did.

Urgency faded, under work and stress, with age. So what if he never knows what the song is about? Meeting his soulmate didn’t matter anymore, if it ever really had. It was not the reason why he played, to draw the Lyrical to his melody. He was happy with his life, as it is. Content.

MACUSA knew the sound of his melody. It was tapped against wood, against wool, against steel. It wandered over ivory keys at shifts’ end, and was hummed over coffee. And many wondered if it was supposed to be wordless. 

Some people’s were, some melodies needed space to ring clear. Not everyone’s heart was a duet. 

Percival Graves’....it sounded complete as it was, and sometimes aurors stopped by just to listen. Never long, the boss wouldn’t stand for it, and wouldn’t linger himself if he caught anyone watching too intently. 

It was a lovely melody — beautiful, to most ears. But not... Not cheerful. It did sound hauntingly doleful at times, restless, looping.

Nobody dared to mention it though, Percival Graves was too much of an authority for comments or pity smiles.

It was a surprise when he stopped. Only a month of silence, but still, a surprise that starts one day and stretches. 

No one quite knew when he’d stopped, and certainly no know knew why. 

No one asked.

He played again, eventually. Flat, perfunctory, like he’d forgotten how.

If only his aurors could have seen beyond it, if only they could have known, if only anybody cared enough to notice that after that one raid went totally wrong, when he… when nobody actually returned.

Just a shadow in his clothes and with his face, a completely different man, a fake.

At first, Gellert Grindelwald kept the auror in his own flat. Which seemed far worse than any other place it could have been, a type of experiential stain that would never fade out of the wainscott and the floors. Having healed his wounds only enough for Graves not to bleed to death, extracted his memories one by hard-fought one, Grindelwald chained him with countless binding spells and decided that this was enough to keep his victim at bay.

There was no torture. Not the way the world understood torture. Not the way a soldier of the Great War knew torture, no mustard gas or dragonfire burns. No mud, no food shortages, no scent of dying, no sound of boys weeping terror into their bedrolls. Definitely none of the base agony of amputation or splinching wounds, no thousand-fold cuts or lightning strikes. None of the creative insults that criminals used to maintain the pecking order in a world even more secret than Prohibition, broken bones and slow bleeding and panicked gasps bouncing off the wrong side of a pine box lid.

He watches his own face and body move at a mind-twisting distance, and loses the management of the limbs attached to him like he’d been deemed incompetent with them. No torture, save for having to watch his captor wear his own face, and Imperious curses forcing him give over the tedious details of his life. Drink his coffee, walk, act in certain ways, be it furious or surprised, as Grindelwald practiced his performance. It hurt—Grindelwald had only healed him just enough to live, not more. Imperious didn’t seem to care, and his movements offered no quarter to slow-knitting tissue. He’d hate Grindelwald for it, and he does; but he doesn’t kid himself into believing he’d have been much kinder to himself if he’d been free.

Losing the satisfaction of a well-earned coffee was a minor grief. There were greater losses to mourn.

He took Percival’s melody, played it day after day. Grindelwald wrote it down, grinning — he burned it and just when Percival thought he might be satisfied, made him lift a pen to inscribe it onto paper once more. Made him give it over, the movement casual, like he gave over his heartsong every day to narcist madmen. And played it until it rang in Percival’s ear, wrong, wrong, wrong. 

Grindelwald played it over and over, in hope that he will get it just right, because those are the small details that matter the most. One could act completely out of character and it would slip by unremarked, if the gestures, the music and other insignificant details, like a favourite pair of cuffs, are firmly in place.

Grindelwald sometimes asks him, whether he is an exact replica of what Graves once was, with a slick smile Percival cannot recognize on his own face. He hates it.

Percival doesn’t answer, won’t make a sound unless Imperious drags it from him. He’s resolved: he won’t make it any fun for his captor, who seems to crave his attention and dismiss it by turns, and he’d rather be willfully silent than silenced. So he stares ahead and hopes that this pineapple-headed bastard is wrong. That his department is better than this, that they will notice, given enough time. That he is nothing like Gellert Grindelwald. 

His fingers don’t tap, his throat stays quiet. He can’t tell if the song in his head is quieter, or louder, or if he’s losing his mind.

Dust gathers on the windowsill, as the days get longer and the sun starts shining brighter. Spring is over; Percival doesn’t like summer, it’s always too hot for his liking, and he usually waits impatiently for it to end. But now he’s counting days, watching for the slightest chance to get out. His count stops on day fifty-two, when Grindelwald notices with a terrible chuckle and puts a charm on the window. The scenery behind it freezes, fades to dark. And then the only way to tell the time is watching a dieffenbachia on the windowsill slowly wither away, as his captor gets too busy to water it and it starves for want of the light. A thoughtful gift from the Goldstein sisters for something he’d have waved off as the duty of a mentor, it once was a beautiful plant. He’d been careful not to neglect it. It isn’t any longer. 

Fifty-two days merge into one neverending night. Percival comes to think that, perhaps, he _is_ — like Grindelwald. At least to the extent that nobody can tell the difference. And if they can, well… then Percival has no idea why it all goes so incredibly smoothly for his captor. 

Does nobody notice how this excuse for a man butchered his song, how he can never get it right? 

Perhaps… Perhaps nobody ever listened close enough. He’d caught people watching sometimes, but maybe they’d thought of it as...as some sort of elevator music, something meaningless, void of any personality or feeling.

Some people’s melodies are best played alone. It’s sad, but not everyone has a mate waiting, and their music reflects that. Too hollow to complement anyone else’s, so empty they just — disappear.

It makes a terrible sort of sense.

Being in captivity is painfully embarrassing and frustrating. Percival tries to escape several times, leaping at the small mistakes Grindelwald makes like they might be the perfect opportunity. There aren’t many of those exploitable mistakes, but he watches for them, saves his strength for the next. 

But all his efforts turn out to be futile in one way or another; he is caught every time and Grindelwald doesn’t torture him. He’s thoroughly punished for his attempts, but like a naughty child: banished to a corner, Imperius’d silent and still, to stare at the wainscot and the floor. Everything hurts; he sits on the floor like a toy soldier abandoned for bed. He can barely breathe, and he does not tap, and he does not hum.

  
Futile. Grindelwald, after all, is an incredibly powerful wizard, his strength is too great for Percival to overcome. He tries to think what he might say to one of his aurors, after he’s driven himself too dizzy with self-recrimination to think of another escape route. Tries to breathe, to convince himself that failure after failure like this isn’t unexpected when dealing with such a powerful wizard. After all, nobody in the whole of Europe had been able to put an end to the dark wizard’s deeds, and he tries to remember than he’s just one man and one man was never going to be enough, but if he stays calm, and is very, very clever, _ perhaps _— 

But it sounds like a lie in his head and he wants to rage and weep for how useless he feels, how helpless he is now.

He should have been more careful — they all should have been better prepared, more wary. He should have protected his aurors — should have sent them back, when suddenly it was chaos instead of an orderly incursion. Should have shielded their retreat, and perhaps escaped himself -- he could have been a coward, even, when everyone else had fallen, he could have run. He could have used an unforgivable curse, something Grindelwald wouldn’t have had a chance to block, and he didn’t even think of it. He could have blown the whole building to bits, made his aurors’ sacrifices mean something and joined them, defiant. He could have been a sensible Department head and delegated, just stayed back in his office and not presented the temptation of a high-ranking target for Grindelwald’s amusement. His mind floods with regrets.

He swears to himself: the next time he faces a Dark wizard with aspirations of world domination, he won’t be so foolish as to cling to MACUSA’s rules.

As the days slip past, it seems clear that there won’t be a ‘next time’. 

He doesn’t know what day it is, when he first ignores the food Grindelwald leaves like an after-thought. Grindelwald doesn’t notice, that first day.

He certainly notices the second day, though. It proves to be the most effective tactic of resistance Percival has managed, in all his time as Grindelwald’s captive: in a fit of pique, Grindelwald turns him into some kind of object, which comes dangerously close to being shattered against the floor, and is instead entrusted to one of Grindelwald’s subordinates to hide. 

Percival struggles, first grimly triumphant, and then sincerely frightened, until the spell makes his head go quiet. 

Teapots have none of the music of their stovetop cousins. He is inert, voiceless.

He is quiet for a very long time.

***

Percival, of course, cannot know it. When the spell fades away, he finds himself alone on a deserted rocky island, small enough to cross in exactly two minutes. He has no idea where he is, or how long he has been a thing instead of a person. All he knows is that he’s all alone, and around there’s nothing but cold rocks, sharpened by wind and ocean waves.

Everything hurts. 

Over hours that ache like days, he exhausts ways to escape this rocky island, but without a wand he is not capable of much. It’s almost physically hard to think. Remembering even the simplest spells gets challenging, using them — even harder. He mutters a warming spell and feels it take as much of his magic as a patronus charm once did. He’s weak, and his hands tremble, but not yet from the cold. Surely he could still swim, but just as surely he would drown: the land is nowhere to be seen. There is no potable water, and there is no food.

Better, perhaps, to leave a body; someone would find him, someday, and to drown was to disappear entirely. He sits — he groans to do it, because everything hurts and pebble beaches are no more comfortable than bare wood floors. The only thing he can do is to look at the waves crashing against the sharp cliffs and remember his melody, gradually accepting his fate. Looking at the stars and thinking about the fact that somewhere out there, far away, someone's words will never find their match in music.

He sits, and hurts. He taps, and hums, and watches the waves as the sun sinks.

*** 

It’s either that genius extends to all his skills, even acting in all its imprecision, Gellert has decided, or that Graves’ subordinates are terribly unobservant. His research indicates that their Director was nearly famous in MACUSA for playing the piano, trailing restless fingertips over melancholy keys, and here Gellert stands, securely in his place, living his life, fingers still and keys dull since he hasn’t gotten it right yet. He might not bother at all, but the Plan demands exactitude and dedication, and he fancies himself a perfectionist

Once the most qualified aurors are gone, sent away for missions or transferred away to remote offices for minor infractions — once the amusement of taunting the Director has been abandoned — his attention to it wanes. No use investing anything in sustaining that farce; even if someone does see the difference, they’ve chosen not to act. 

But for the impact on his plans, Gellert Grindelwald does not care about someone else's melody, nor their coward employees: the Plan demands his utmost attention. He has his work; an obscurus to be found, laws to be twisted and broken in a spectacular array. He is not interested in unwritten songs he can’t hear, he is not interested in songs that are incomplete and meanderingly pointless, wooing someone who wasn’t there.

Who would have thought that everything would go awry so quickly? That sending an annoying Brit to die might be the catalyst not of global war but his own minor failure here? That the obscurus might turn out to be the squib boy, not his useless brat sister? That an auror would turn against him, and more, that only _ one _ auror would turn against him. 

Loyalty above all, indeed, he thought, and nearly giggled

Oh, the evening had been full of surprises. Gellert already knows that his arrest will be no setback. He will escape, and almost half of the congress is now loyal to him, swayed to his truth, while the other half is, well… there is no union among them, they see the enemy in every shadow, a plot in every move, too suspicious to notice anything going on in plain sight right under their noses.

People in that state of mind are easy to trick and even easier to manipulate. 

And if Grindelwald encounters someone who isn’t, well, Imperius curse copes with the task just fine. After Graves, these will feel like child’s play.

In the meantime, there shall be a temporary lull for New York. Aurors loyal to President Picquery can take a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding, as the rain washes away the destruction and the raging obscurus and the thunderbird soaring into the skies, out of city’s memory.

The traitorous page of Percival’s melody lies on the piano in the atrium, forgotten in the turmoil of the night's happenings...

***

“Please wait here! And don’t touch anything,” Tina tells Newt, leaving him in the MACUSA atrium, “I will be right back, I just need to…”

What exactly she needs to do, Newt doesn’t catch, too distracted by his surroundings to really listen to what his friend has got to say. Surely he’s been here before, it feels like he’s been dragged through every corner of this building in the last three days, but the insides of the Woolworth building are impressive enough to marvel at them once more. He stops by the grand piano, and looks around. He has seen this instrument already, remembers the polished gleam of it, like the Niffler’s back. Last time, however, there were no sheet music left on it, and the circumstances did not contribute to excessive curiosity. Now… now he wants to take a closer look.

_ Lyrics always have it easy _, they say. Nothing to worry about, when it’s all written down, no desperate scramble for the right thing to say or do. Someone else might say that Newt has had every advantage, could find his soulmate without any complications but those he built up for himself. Plenty of someones had said exactly that, scoffing at his hesitance and worries until he learned not to say anything about it at all.

His skill with a keyboard suggested that he was the one carrying the melody. He didn’t like to disagree, would duck an awkward gesture and mumble away something vague, but it was not true.

The words he was born with were strange. Not unknowable, just — without tune and tone, they were merely pretty scraps of poetry. And incomplete, which was a strange thing for someone so far out of childhood. Almost incomprehensibly vague, the meaning hiding under the words had been a mystery for a long time. A mystery he tried to solve, of course, but it had faded in the face of new words, new languages, that carried their melodies with them. His life’s work was filled to the brim with learning to speak to amazing creatures, and Newt…

Newt doesn’t look for a melody. 

If he stumbles upon one — great. Maybe. If not, well, it’s really not a big deal. He annoys people, anyway.

Right now, with Tina disappearing in the depths of MACUSA, restlessness tugs at him: he’s got absolutely nothing to do while he waits. He could have offered to go with her, but Merlin knows how he hates all those tables with their endless stacks of papers, documents and permits. Bureaucracy revolts him, makes him twitchy and claustrophobic, his heart pounding too hard in his chest, so if Tina is willing to deal with it for him — Newt will let her do it, with no questions asked. He will thank her later on the way to the docks; she promised the President that she’d escort him, prevent any more creature mishaps.

But right now… His fingers itch, the ivory keys are at once repulsive and beautiful, and there’s nothing to be done for the creature they once were, so why not play something while he waits. He doubts that anybody would protest; MACUSA is too busy now to mind the noise, with a Dark Lord having wreaked havoc. He gently touches the keys with his fingers, eyes focused on notes written in unfamiliar handwriting. 

Curious looking tune.

At first, as if trying to taste the music, he slowly drops sound after sound into the air. Raindrops, a slow tapping. Then they drew him in, smoothed the tapping to a soft patter, flowed, and the music takes control over him.

And it seemed...vaguely familiar. 

No, not vaguely. As familiar as shaving, as near as his own magic, his own wand. His. But not.

But how can this be, bearing the words in his heart, remember the melody as well? Is it some kind of magic trick? A charm, perhaps? He has never heard of somebody discovering their heartsong by playing it themselves, from written notes. A soulmate was supposed to do that, they were supposed to meet. To see each other, and not just… 

Music fills the building, echoing off the walls, and some staff members freeze in their tracks. They haven’t heard this haunting sadness in the notes, it faded over the past six months, and now it is finally clear why. 

Aurors passing by freeze -- gazes dropping and shoulders slumping — shamed, as the music strikes at their consciences. The Director would be disappointed — he had relied on them, in vain, as they had let the intruder take their superior’s place. Someone, overcome, weeps. A few swell up with righteousness, furious at the trespass: to play someone's melody, without even knowing the person was a cruelty. They are sure that the British magizoologist does not know what it is. Whose it is.

And then Newt starts singing.

It’s startling, to be surprised by his own mouth, his own lyrics, but once he’s started he doesn’t stop because — the words fit the music perfectly, complementing it, and complemented by it in response.

_ The winter may pass and the spring disappear _

_ The spring disappear _

_ The summer too will vanish and then the year _

_ And then the year _

Now the words, always so vague, seem finally meaningful. Hope lights up in his chest for a second — really? After so many years, the dust has finally been erased from the words and they have found a place, a time to sound, and for the first time ever so loud? Now as a _ Song _.

Newt suddenly feels lonely, as lonely as as an augurey’s cry, and he wonders if this feeling has something to do with the melody itself or the way he discovered it. He hopes it’s the latter, fears what such a sad melody would mean.

_ But this I know for certain: you'll be there with me _

_ You'll be there with me _

_ And just as we promised I'll find you waiting then _

_ I'll find you waiting then _

His fingers find the keys blindly as his vision steals away, find it even when he shakes while an unfamiliar picture rises before his mind’s eye: waves. Rocks. The piercing wind seems to crawl to the bone, cold even when the atrium is warm, and Newt still does not understand - does not _ want _ to understand, does not want to be seeing _ true _ \- what he sees. Diminished in the midst of towering rocks and icy waves that mercilessly smashed themselves against the stones, the figure of a trapped man shivers and wraps his arms close, embraces himself in a vain desperation to keep the remnants of warmth.

_ God help you when wand'ring your way all alone _

_ Your way all alone _

_ God grant to you his strength as you'll kneel at his throne _

_ As you'll kneel at his throne _

Percival hears a stranger’s voice. He hears the words, which he had never heard before, that spear him through, ripped apart and made whole. He can’t hum any longer — no water and hours of cold have reduced his voice to a fair imitation of the rocky spit of land he’s trapped upon. It doesn’t seem to matter, the shape of the melody pressing out regardless. He knows what it means: somewhere far away, his melody, taken by force and left carelessly somewhere, written in his own hand, in which he has in the span of some few hours unwittingly placed all his present hopes and his despair, has found its other half. 

He _ hears _ a stranger’s voice, a shock since it probably ought to be impossible but it is nothing but comfort, this voice that brings some much-needed scrap of warmth back to his soul. It sings a promise

He repeats them, soundless, lips dry from the cold and salty wind, as if trying to feel as that other voice sings them. Knows the shape of the melody better than breathing, struggles to learn the words as they slide slippery over his lips. To make his hazy brain comprehend, to feel them and hoard them close, the brightest memory of his otherwise faded life, before finally…

He closes his eyes, focusing fully on the song. It has become one already, a song, not just a stray collection of chords, restless and looping without its meaning. It engulfs him, his tired soul, and brings him a measure of peace. His body no longer aches for the effort of shivering from the cold. He isn’t bothered by the wind or the rain that has kicked up to torment him.

In those last moments of consciousness he feels not sadness, nor pain, nor disappointment. The words ask of him to trust and so he does, without question or doubts.

He waits. 

Tina returns to the sound of music, so familiar she had almost dared to hope. She offers Newt a weak smile, guilty for how disappointed she was to see copper hair and a bright blue coat, right where she’d left him.

A long black coat over an immaculate suit and piercing dark eyes would have been a miracle. MACUSA wasn’t that lucky.

Newt continues to play the Director’s melody, and she dares not to interrupt him, not to scold him for his restlessness nor beg him to stop for the pain of grief. Having found him singing, the thought of scolding slips away. Instead she stands there, quietly watching him. The sound is as chill and lonely as ever, and Newt seems trapped by it, left silhouetted and stilled, but she hopes that it’s just a fleeting impression. Clings to that hope with all her strength, and prayed for a happy ending after all. For herself, for Percival Graves, for her terribly dear new friend — for everyone, that is.

The song sounds sorrowful. It has before, months ago, a stiff and stoic refrain, as if that were the last goodbye, and now it does again. It’s frightening now, feels too portentous in the face of all that’s happened in the night, notes spelling out their author’s doom.

It’s wrong, all wrong, that all the hope the Thunderbird had brought them is being stolen away after a night of unrelieved pain and loss. It’s all wrong, that there’s strengthening dawn light in the high windows and Newt is playing the Director’s melody, singing like he’s already grieving, like his heart’s breaking as surely as Queenie’s has. It _ has _ to be wrong. Tina has to believe that it doesn’t mean a thing. Not a single one, she can’t bear to see all this suffering come to naught.

Grindelwald is now in captivity, he will be interrogated, he will tell them where he has been holding Mr. Graves all this time. They’ll find him, will _ save _ him, from where-ever Grindelwald’s hidden him away. He’ll heal, he’s always been far too stubborn to stay at home, he’ll return to work, take back his office. Probably too soon, really, but she can’t bear to think that he might be so terribly hurt as to prevent it. And the aurors will have to prove themselves again, give him better than their best efforts and prove that he can trust the work to them, even though they’ve failed him. They will, they’ll prove it to him, that he can take the time he needs to heal. 

And, and surely he’ll play again on this piano — and surely, certainly, he will be told about his melody, even though Newt’s leaving tomorrow, surely he’ll come back, give Mr. Graves the chance to play for him. Surely there is more than this scrap of paper suggests, more than a looping requiem that ominously softens with every repetition.

Newt doesn’t look her way, he keeps on playing like he can’t look away from the sheet music, like he can’t stop his fingers on the keys. The refrain is lingering, then comes the next verse — there are no words there. The music is entirely too soft, and the stanzas are running out beneath his fingers.

“We will find Mr. Graves,” she says, not quite daring to look Newt in the eye. “You know, I’m sure that he is alive. He is not a man who would just — give up.”

As if in response to her words, Newt's shoulders shudder. His song… its words have never come to him completely, the end has been open, unfinished. Strange, for an adult, but he’s always been odd. It’s never occurred to him to fear it. 

He stumbles, the music stops, but only for a second, stuttering at his fingertips. The last verse, the last four lines, overwhelms him like the coldest wave. 

_ Now you are in heaven waiting for me _

_ In heaven for me _

_ And we shall meet again love and never parted be _

_ And never parted be. _


	2. Kråkevisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newt makes a desision and comes to his soulmate's rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's bassically a chapter where almost nothing happens, thus, it's pretty short.  
Also, Newt sings a lot here, but I'm picking this particular song to represent the chapter, 'cuz reasons.  
https://youtu.be/XHRBcfosqO8

Is it possible to change destiny?

Or should one submit, when it forces its rules upon them, silently watching as it takes away the illusion of a chance, so graciously given just moments before?

Newt has never allowed himself to suffer from the thought about not being able to find his Melody to keep him company. He was never alone, in truth: the beasts were the purpose of his life, leaving him no time to think about any unfulfilled aspirations or Ensemble relationships. He had all but willfully forgetten about this particular aspect of life, but now…

Now there were decisions to make that didn’t affect him alone.

Could he even trust the song’s promise? Surely, every laboured breath takes this spectral, far-away man closer to eternity, and not slowly; there are mere moments before there will be nothing that will save his soulmate. It was only a strange twist of fate to have even this little scrap of his Melody.

But to do that, to sit far-distant vigil and no more... Could he do that to the person meant for him, unmet and not yet truly beloved, but whose melody complements the lyrics of his song, whose melody he now _ knows _?

How could he _ ever _ , how could he stand aside _ now _, feeling the choking in his own chest as his soulmate’s breath gets weaker?

Newt says: “Never.”

Newt tells himself, “It is not the end.”

Newt commands himself, “I must try.”

He has seen the place; he could get there. Probably. Yes, it’s rather risky, perhaps more than just _ rather _, to apparate there. But he could at least give it a try — he who risks nothing, gets nothing, and Newt’s soulmate has little left to lose. 

Worrying means you suffer twice, so Newt doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t give space to negative thoughts. He steps away from the piano abruptly, the notes still echoing, picks up his case and squeezes his wand tight.

Tina calls out to him, voice ringing with panic. She has no idea what he is going to do, but one thing she knows for sure — it’s something terribly reckless, and she jolts forward, rushes to his side — 

Alas, it is already too late.

Coastal pebbles shift beneath Newt’s feet, the wind throws salty splashes into his face, making him squint and blink rapidly. The music keeps ringing in his ears, almost as a plea for help: he looks around, shiver running down his spine. There’s nothing here, apart from rocks carved by water and wind, sharp, cold, almost black from constant rain. He wants to shout, to attract attention, but something tells him that this will be a vain effort. How could somebody even end up in this awful place, so cold and alienated?

Newt doesn’t even notice that instead of covering the small island on foot he apparates from one spot to another, feeling like a will-o’wisp, dread like noxious swamp gases. He seems to perpetually run out of breath, constantly on the edge of gasping, but just cannot do a thing to regain his calm. 

The moments last what seems like an eternity, pitch-black and thick like tar. Perhaps he’s gotten it wrong, all wrong. Perhaps there’s no one here, and the melody to his lyrics is dying alone, somewhere out of reach. Perhaps he’d been a fool.

At some point, time stops altogether: he finally spots a shadow between the sharp rocks. 

“Oh, wait for me, won’t you?” 

It’s true, it’s all true, and left much longer, his soulmate would probably be prepared to wait just as was promised, till they met in death. Shirt wet from the drizzling rain, shoulders slumped under no longer white fabric, wet hair obscuring his face and hiding his eyes. Did he even yet draw breath? Slipping and teetering on the wet stones Newt rushes to the man, hoping that it is not too late yet. That he has come in time.

“Please, a bit longer,” he asks, and although he isn’t expecting an answer, he feels his heart sink when he doesn’t even get a glance returned. No sign at all that he’s been noticed. Probably not conscious. 

But it doesn’t matter; Newt is already here and he had already made up his mind: he will win this fight. He won’t surrender a part of his soul, not even to death itself. “You _ will _ hold on for me.”

He can still _ feel _his words, hear the echo of their song. 

He just — there is no other choice.

Newt pulls off his coat and wraps it around the no-longer shivering figure of his soulmate, whispering a warming spell. The drizzling rain eagerly throws itself onto its new victim, and dark spots appear where freezing raindrops land on his own clothes, but this fades in the light of the new task at hand. 

He has to get them out of here, and this is a far more challenging than having arrived just now. One thing, to impulsively drag yourself into a place, miraculously spotted in another person’s thoughts, but as adrenaline fades from his blood, he is no longer sure if apparating would be safe.

Will Percival Graves be strong enough to survive it? He has to. After all, it couldn’t have all been in vain. He could just hold the unfortunate man in his arms, recall the great hall of MACUSA, the piano, the high windows beyond which one could see the grey skies New York… in a moment he could be back there.

Or he could scatter them terribly across the frigid water, risking limbs and blood and pain that his soulmate hasn’t the strength to give.

Newt dares not risk it.

“Сan you get up?” 

A desperate whisper remains unanswered. Newt has no choice but to take the man by the shoulders and pull him up, forcing him to stand up. Only then, in response to a touch, Percival flinches and opens his eyes, but just for a moment. He seems to be trying to say something, because Newt sees his dry lips twitch, but no sound breaks the silence, as Percival’s eyes flutter shut once more.

Newt looks around, as if among the rocks he will miraculously find a way out; he suddenly sees a glimpse of something leather-brown, so familiar, that his heart stops for a split second. His case. His beasts, his life — and there it lies, left behind in a fit of his desperate search. Shame coils inside his chest, he never thought he was capable of such a thoughtless act, but there he is. 

With a heavy sigh he summons his case back. At least he knows what to do now, panic finally fading enough, allowing him to think rationally. He’s done it before, many times. There is really no big difference whom to help, an injured fwooper or a human. Percival still leans heavily on his shoulder, barely conscious, while Newt hurriedly fumbles with the rope securing his case from opening. He struggles with untying it so much that it no longer seems to be as great of an idea as he thought of in back in New York. 

Newt tries to catch his breath, convincing himself that there is still time and nothing will happen in these few dozens of seconds. Abruptly throwing off the lid, he opens the case. No beast tries to escape, not a single billywig dares to fly out, as if all the curious inhabitants of the menagerie are aware of unfamiliar surroundings and hostile elements. 

Whispering words of reassurance and hope, he almost drags Percival inside, as the man can barely stand on his own, stuck somewhere in between life and death. 

When the warmth of Newt’s case finally engulfs them both, Percival loses his last traces of consciousness, as if drawing strength from icy winds and rain, as if he was able to hold on just enough to be saved, and not a moment longer. 

For Newt, time speeds up again, as he feels himself racing against it. 

Pulling wet clothes off his charge, Newt puts him on a cot, wraps him in a blanket, whispering a warming spell once more. Sorting over a million and one jar of potions he has lying around in search of something which would help, Newt keeps talking is a soft voice, words of reassurance still on his breath. 

“I’m here.”

“You are going to be just fine.”

Most of all, the man in Newt’s care needs rest. Rest, warmth, lots of drinking water. He doesn’t appear terribly wounded, which is a surprise, considering the rumors about Grindelwald and his ways. Well, even so, Percival Graves is in a terrible state, and there is no saying which curses he could have endured or how long he had been here, starving, freezing to death… Newt worries so much that he is forced to stop: his hands tremble, he can barely hold a wand. 

He forces himself to make a slow inhale and then even slower exhale. He is no use like this, and he knows it. “Worrying means you suffer twice,'' he says under his breath, vainly trying to understand why it happens. He has never been such a panicked wreck in his life, so what’s so different now? Is this how it goes with soulmates? All he heard were sweet stories about love or life-long companionships, which do not seem true now. Not with those lyrics. Not with this situation at hand.

Yet Newt knows one thing — he cannot afford to lose this person. Not like this.

***

To overpower death, one doesn’t necessarily need to gather the three of its hallows — even if the wild panic inside him felt strong enough to take back the Elder Wand, he can’t pry himself from his soulmate’s side for long enough. 

Sometimes it is possible with enough care, freshly brewed potions and some gentle healing spells. Kindness and persistence have saved many lives inside his case.

Newt was no healer, definitely not for humans anyway, but he tried his best. Days and nights merged into one, as he kept refreshing his charms, brewing new potions for his charge, applying ointments. Old wounds stretch across Percival’s body, barely held closed with too-fast scarring which hadn’t had the chance to heal properly, and resisted _ episky _ now, as if there was a curse preventing them from it. 

Newt knew that a mediwitch would have done a better job with all of that, but he just couldn’t… 

Anxiety for his charge made concentrating on apparation seem like an impossible task. Merlin knows — he wanted to. He tried, climbing out of the case to stand trembling in the rain. The worry took the best of him each and every time, and Newt knew better than to attempt it. 

So he just kept going. Did the best he could, for his Melody’s sake.

It takes almost a week for Percival to come back to the world of the living. A week of hourly spells and potions, and snatching moments to keep his creatures comfortable in between. Of lingering, dizzying vigil, half out of his head with a fear that had settled into his chest, chained there with his words, unsoothed by the looping restlessness of remembered melody. He thought it might ease, if only his soulmate might consent to open his eyes.

Newt walks into his shed on the seventh day and almost stumbles as he notices dark careful eyes watching him. 

“Where am I?” Percival asks in a hoarse voice, still too weak to lift his head from the pillow. “And who are you?”

“Me?”

This one word, this one sound is enough for Percival to recognize the voice he heard just before the world around him went dark. He doesn’t say anything, but his question is evident in his stare. Surely Graves wonders how it was possible, and Newt has no answer. He doesn’t know what to say or how to say it, communication with humans was never his forte, and therefore he tries to make this conversation as short as possible.

“I’m Newton Scamander. But please just call me Newt,” he offers with a hint of anxiety evident in his voice. 

Percival introduces himself too, although it’s evident that Newt already knows who he is, even if they’ve never met before. 

Newt doesn’t want to remember how he came to know the name of his soulmate. That he met… this person. The person who put all of New York in danger, who sent Newt himself to be executed, who rummaged through his case… who dared to wear another man’s face as his own. 

“I’m glad you woke up,” Newt says softly and brushes dark locks of hair from Percival's forehead. A gesture which he had become used to over time — he doesn’t think twice about doing it, there’s no place for shyness when it comes to caring about someone.

“You’re still on that… island, yes, inside my case. As soon as you get better, we will apparate back to New York. Everyone must be worried. For both of us, I guess.”

Percival sighs, with a kind of hopelessness in his voice, which makes anxiety crowl deep inside Newt’s soul at the thought of what his Melody has been through. He doesn’t want to think about it, not now, at least, so he just smiles back, hoping that it can somehow change Graves’ outlook on… on the whole situation and perhaps, life in general. 

Percival doesn’t ask any more questions, nor does he talk much, apart from thanking Newt for food, water and even the awful-tasting potions. For some reason, he trusts this man. Even if he doesn’t see an opportunity for conversation, he feels a deep connection to him, as if they’ve known each other for ages. The song, _ their _song asked him to trust, and he does. Even if that is just a dream before he freezes to death between the rocks on a deserted island, he is eager to follow this illusion as long as it stands before his eyes. 

However, Newt sings too well to be just an illusion. He was singing almost all the time, sometimes those were songs Percival knew, sometimes they were something he couldn’t recognize, in languages he couldn’t speak. There were scandinavian medieval ballads, folk songs from all over the world, some classics, some modern ones: it seemed almost as if Newt was collecting them. He hummed wordless tunes while brewing potions and preparing meals for what Pecival could only guess were magical creatures — he didn’t see them, but surely could hear their presence. Newt’s voice sounded right. As if Percival was supposed to hear him sing. As if inside his soul there was a place just for it, as a missing piece of the puzzle, as if it was all meant to be. 

This feeling was entirely new for Percival and he wanted to understand its nature better before attempting to talk about… about what their song entails. 

“Who do you keep there, outside?” he finally asks, feeling that that isn’t the perfect start of a dialog about a heartsong and doom which it has brought about. However, Newt reacts much better than Percival could ever expect. Broad smile lights up his face. 

“You’ll see once you get better,” Newt tells him eventually. He tries to keep his voice calm, but it still somehow trembles with excitement. And still, he was still quite cautious when it came to his beasts; Percival was an auror and he… well, aurors had an awful lot of rules concerning magical creatures, the laws Newt resented. Despite being so closely connected with this man Newt didn’t know to what extent he could trust him, yet he wanted to. Now that they’ve met, he almost longed to trust. But he couldn’t help but wonder… Would Percival hate what he sees? Would he, perhaps, be scared, as many are? Or would he simply not care about the creatures Newt so deeply loves? 

“But I’m fine, really,'' Percival insists, sitting up on the bed and lowering his feet to the floor, perhaps, too fast for his body to adjust to his high-spiritedness, as a fit of coughing escapes his lungs. 

“That’s exactly what I’ve been talking about,” Newt mutters, gently pushing the man back to bed. “It’s too early for you to get up, your body needs rest.”

“Are you going to order me around then, Mr. Scamander?” 

Newt blinked in surprise. He… really didn’t expect this kind of an answer. After all “ordering around” was the last thing he wanted to ever do. But then again, Percival Graves has been through a lot, and injured creatures often bared teeth at anyone who dared to come closer, even if they had the best intentions in mind. Newt doesn’t reply, he lets it slip. He wasn’t helping this man to be thanked, he did it because he wanted to. Because the pull of his melody was too strong. 

Another day passes in silence, and Percival feels guilty about what he said and how he said it. It clearly upset Newt, even if he didn’t say a word. This isn’t how the conversation was supposed to go, but… he couldn’t help it. Even with Newt obviously caring so much about him, he feels trapped here, just as he was back inside his flat. Slowly, faded emotions flood back, and they too, aren’t what Percival could ever expect from himself in a situation like this, with a soulmate by his side. It’s irritation, when Newt checks on him for the millionth time a day, it’s suspicion as he eyes the potions he gives. The slightest touch is enough to make Percival flinch and he snaps at his savior with absolutely no reason behind it. He never once calls him by his first name.

Sometimes it seems that Newt doesn't notice such a behaviour, sometimes he seems upset by it, but he never says a word, never stops caring and helping. Percival marvels at his unwavering calm. He doesn’t know that Newt has seen this all before. Not in humans, but in the numerous beasts he saved. Trust when help is needed most, when there is no strength left to fight, and only then, as strength came back, hissing and bared fangs. A belated defensive act. 

“Do you really think that if I wanted to poison you, I would not have done it earlier?” Newt asks Percival, who has been sniffing the herbal tea suspiciously for almost half an hour. 

Percival snorts angrily and sips from the cup. His whole appearance says: “I am not afraid of you,” but his actions tell a different story, they still are wary and cautious. 

Newt can’t take his eyes off him.

***

It takes Newt almost one more week to allow Percival to leave his shack and take a look at what lies beyond it. At all the creature who dwell there. 

He followed his guide among the amazing aviaries, rocks, caves, prairies, jungles and even past a huge cube of water, he looked at the creatures that he knew only from books, or those that were completely unfamiliar. Percival Graves did not like magical beasts. Or, rather, he told himself that he did not like them, while in fact, he, an auror with many years of experience, was simply afraid of them. Since childhood, he had trouble establishing relationships with magical creatures, his mother’s kneazle hated him, in third year at Ilvermorny he was once almost finished off by a hippogryph, so… he saw a trend there, never tried to change it ever since. And now, among all this variety he was feeling uneasy. Too evidently so.

“Don’t worry about the niffler, he’s absolutely harmless,” It seems that magizoologist has noticed how Percival recoiled from the small creature which peaked out of its burrow. The niffler probably decided to inspect whether this new person still has anything valuable on him. Alas, nothing was left to take there and the niffler disappeared inside his den with a scornful snort, to shift and polish coins and other shiny little things stolen back in New York. 

“I do hope you have permits for all of them,” Percival says, running fingers through his stubble that has already begun to turn into a beard.

“Y-yes, of course...” Newt mutters in response, and freezes in place, as if he had been asked to produce them all on the spot. He has them. Some of them. He just does not remember where. And he doesn’t remember when their expiration date has gone by. But they are definitely present! And he is ready to prove it, even if it takes infinity to do so. 

Amidst the light quarrel that arises, Percivals can’t help but notice that he no longer addresses magizoologist as “Mr. Scamander”, switching to his first name instead, and it feels _ right _. 

There is no wickedness in the fuss around the permits, although he likes to tease Newt about it sometimes, because his reaction is golden. Percival can barely keep his cool as the magizoologist tries to convince him that the permit for one mooncalf actually covers the whole herd. 

It’s funny how different they are. How there is no order where Newt dwells, how he hates the rules, while Percival has always been the one to abide by them and enforce them onto others.

He can’t help but think, what if there was no song. What if he imagined it? Surely he was grateful for being saved, but… he couldn’t help but wonder whether Newt truly is his… Lyrical. Among those beasts, with hay in his hair? In a shirt which looked like it’d seen Merlin himself?

His soulmate?

It was almost impossible to believe it.

If Percival ever thought about meeting a soulmate, it was never this scenario. His Lyrical shouldn’t have found him in the middle of nowhere, barely breathing. He shouldn’t have risked his life to apparate to his rescue. Shouldn’t have treated after-effects of dark magic and pneumonia with dubious decoctions.

Percival glances at the piano, standing in the corner of the room, littered with drafts, tufts of herbs, feathers and tubes filled with potion ingredients. 

When Newt leaves to feed his beasts, he carefully removes all this to the side, moves a stool to the instrument, and gently strokes the yellowed keys. He has not played for a long time. The last time was terrible — he barely remembered it — at home, under the Imperius curse, with the only interested spectator. But Grindelwald didn’t care for the melody. It was the way he played that was of his concern.

Percival tries not to think about the dark wizard, as he silently looks at his trembling hands. Is it worth it? Is it worth it, to play at all? He seemed to remember the words, and what they promised was far from ideal. They promised death, loneliness and a reunion in the next life, perhaps they were what a dying man amongst cold rocks would like to hear, but certainly not the one that was nursed back to health. Percival wanted to live. He wanted to get back to work, to catch the criminal who stole his face, to dress down his department for startling farsightedness — not to notice this under their very noses, while investigating things so far away from them! Yes, that’s exactly what he wanted, and not to submit and perish here, trusting the song. And yet... could he be mistaken? Had he interpreted it all wrong? Perhaps Newt didn’t get here on his own, but on someone’s tip? They never talked about it, and it may turn out that his aurors sent the magizoologist here… 

No, that simply could not be. Newt wouldn’t be here alone if that were the case.

With a gusty sigh, Percival starts playing. The melody slides from under his fingers, as if he touched the piano just yesterday. As if there wasn’t any break in his practice. Piercing notes fill a small room, and it seems that even beyond its limits everything subsides, obeying, as if afraid to interfere. The muffled cries of fwoopers and the grumbling of graphorns can no longer be heard, even the occamies stop their twittering. Music drowns everything, including thoughts, feelings and doubts, forcing to surrender to it completely.

Percival does not notice Newt, who has stopped at the door, and almost winces when he hears his voice. Their song flows through the air like a wind, only fettering and sombre, it reminds of deathly promise and doom they are destined to. It frightens Percival and he almost wishes that he misses a note; his hands tremble, and yet, they do not falter. 

Yet, besides this sensation of doom hanging over him and Newt, there is one more thing. Irrational warmth in his chest, a sense of unity, trust, so unexpected after mutual circumspection.

Newt takes a step closer.

His voice still quiet, timid even, and it is clear why. The melody itself does not carry a pledged meaning and evil omens, it isn’t void of emotion, of sadness, but those are his words that give it true meaning, calling beyond. And Newt is almost ashamed to sing them. It’s sickening to say such words with his soulmate right in front of him, but can he make amends for it? Sing something different instead? Hardly. And so he sings, louder, verse after verse, and closes his eyes, touching the piano with his hand. A lacquered wood passes sound through itself and trembles, as Newt himself does, and as the hands soaring above the keys do.

The last notes and words dissolve for a long time in the heavy air, linger there, as if slowly dying in the silence. No beast still dares to break it. Percival feels sharp, short, worried looks on himself and turns around, for the first time keeping the running gaze of the magizoologist with his own, as heavy as the silence that fell onto his shoulders.

“That’s not... I mean... we could...” Newt gets lost, falls silent, as if frightened by the sound of his own voice and what he has done.

They both know that a song like this is not just empty vibrations of air. This is destiny. Words and music are never random, they predetermine life from birth and cannot ever be changed. What could happen with the one who decided to go against destiny? 

“You shouldn’t have saved me,” Percival says quietly, yet shock from realisation still evident in his voice. 

“What was I supposed to do? Leave a soulmate, you, to die there?” Newt nervously jerks his head up towards the hatch leading outside the case. “In the cold? Under that rain?”

Percival has nothing to say to that. He is grateful for salvation, yes, but now it seems like a futile effort from Newt’s side. Cheating death is a dangerous act, he heard stories about people wanting to change slightest details of their duets and it all going awry _ oh so quickly _. Far worse than it initially was supposed to happen. 

“We will write a new song,” Newt says, although there is no certainty in his words, but Percival wants to believe him and he does. He wills the thoughts of death and doom away and agrees, breathing out a barely audible “yes”. 

This word, barely louder than breath, is what Newt wanted to hear, what he’s been waiting for all this time, so he allows himself a liberty — it’s a short hug, full of emotion, it lasts only slightly longer than a second. Percival does not even have time to close his eyes and relax his tense shoulders, as he is let go. He doesn’t dare to stop Newt from taking a step backwards, but he takes his hand and gently holds it. 

“We have to go back to New York,'' he says quietly. 

“But you…”

“I’m fine, Newt, I really am.”

Newt purses his lips and lowers his head. He knows that it’s only partly true, but well… he is no healer, he cannot help anymore, and even though he knows what is going to happen when they get back…

“Right,” he mutters, head still low, eyes downcast. “Tomorrow morning, then.”

Newt doesn’t voice his concerns over going back. Worrying means you suffer twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you know what's coming next ~  
Thanks for reading <3


	3. Charming Disaster - What remains

Morning greets them with drizzling rain and cold wind. The weather hadn’t changed since Newt first came, not even a little bit, as if it was charmed to forever remain this way — cold, gray, wet. Percival was standing on one of the huge rocks, looking at the waves — dark, muddy water splashing onto the mossy stones. The scenery remained as dull he remembered it — green moss spread onto the stones, little tufts of grass were scattered here and there, one of them in bloom, even, to little avail. Newt’s coat sat uncomfortably around his shoulders, and seemed inappropriately bright for the surrounding greyness. At first, when he had been given this piece of clothing, Percival wanted to refuse, but Newt, as if sensing it, stopped all his attempts with the slightest jerk of his chin. He didn’t even have to offer it a second time, as Percival felt the need to comply without a question. 

He wondered if it will always be like this from now on, as he knocked the moss off the rock he was standing on. This understanding was strangely pleasant, and the absence of his own resistance, too — he usually snapped at most attempts at care with childish petulance and poorly-placed pride, a knee-jerk reaction, despite knowing perfectly well how stupid this sort of behaviour was. 

Perhaps he ought to have accepted help from people more often, should have let them closer. Who knows, maybe then he would have managed to avoid being so shamefully replaced by a dark wizard, for six whole months, with nobody in the whole auror department noticing! Such a shame! And yet the bitterness dragged down into chill melancholy; he understood only too well that this had been his fault, entirely. He used to be too cold towards his aurors, his colleagues… he needed to correct this mistake. 

Newt finished wrapping his suitcase with a rope, exhorting one of his beasts not to attempt escaping. Then, he came closer, clutching the suitcase in one hand and the wand in the other. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, eyeing Percival with a kind of expression the auror didn’t exactly understand, and then handed over his case. 

“Just, please don’t let it go,” he almost begged, and Percival looked at him as if he said something utterly stupid.

“I’m serious!” 

Percival gave a short laugh, took magizoologist’s battered treasure and felt how Newt’s hand squeezed his own only moments later. Its grip was strong. Confident.

“Right, here we go. MACUSA.”

The last look snatched a crab climbed on a moss-covered stone from the landscape. The creature clicked its claws after them: it startled at the loud crack of apparation.

***

The same loud crack echoed from MACUSA’s walls, breaking the silence, and the first thing Percival felt was searing pain across the right side of his body - his face, his shoulder, his hand. He heard a scream, and he was instantly sure whose it was and what caused it. He turned to look, but couldn’t see a thing, his vision kept getting blurry, obscured by red fog — blood. Percival realized they were still holding hands with Newt, as he slowly fell to the floor face-down. 

Unsuccessful apparation. 

Too far, he thinks, oddly contemplative as pain washed through him. Unless Newt hadn’t been concentrating, which seemed deeply unlikely — a magizoologist who wasn’t skilled and focused was dead. And they’ve probably skipped several timezones; MACUSA is dark and silent, unusual except for the early hours of the graveyard shift. Percival was sure that deeper inside the building there were still people working, the Congress never stood empty. Night shifts were common practice, there were always poor souls sorting through endless piles of documents, permits and reports, some aurors had to be on duty as well, every night, although they usually spent them chatting or dozing somewhere in the corner of the office. The was no doubt that this night was no different. There sure were people here, there always were. 

It was Red, who found them both, passed out on the floor, a bit more than half an hour later. The goblin was always the first one to show up in the morning. Although his main concern were bloodstains on the carpet, if it weren’t for him, it might have ended tragically. 

But it didn’t. For the most part. 

***

Percival woke up to the white ceiling and whispers of mediwitches, performing routine diagnostic spells. He reached out to brush away a strand of hair obstructing his vision, but stumbled upon bandages, covering up his right eye. Oh. So, that’s what it was.

“Mr. Graves, you’re awake,” one of the mediwitches stated, and then explained to him precisely what happened. 

They’ve splinched. Left behind parts of themselves, nothing too critical, but quite enough to scar. Percival was told that they’ve managed to save his eye, but not his vision. He would probably never be able to see with his right eye again. The left was undamaged, which was touted as good news. His hand was missing parts of bone and muscle, but that was no big deal, completely repairable. Same went for his shoulder.

No big deal. Just pain, was all. So he thought, until he realised: he had to double-take before reaching for his cup of coffee, because it was suddenly unclear to his brain, how far it was exactly. He found himself bumping into things — wasn’t used to have a blind spot on his right, wasn’t yet able to tell whether things were too close to pass them by. He was told that he will adjust, eventually. One day, he won’t even remember that he ever saw the world differently. 

He was told that Newt’s condition was slightly worse. And that was all he was told, when he asked. 

No matter how hard Percival tried, he couldn’t fish any more information from the medics. They talked freely about his own condition, but Newt… they never said a word about him again, apart from the initial statement. Which, legally was appropriate, but maddening all the same. 

Tina visits several times, in the week he spent at the hospital. He’d known she probably would; never had there been a more eager mentee than Tina Goldstein. And she had always been one of his favourites. He’d seen potential inside her as far back as the first courses she’d taken with the aurors, a desperate desire for justice. He’d recognized that, the same sort of thing that had pushed and pushed him to become an auror. 

The one he now struggled to find inside him, gone as though it had never been, hollowed out of him. 

Tina wasn’t in MACUSA for the love of the powers it offered or the steady pay of law enforcement, she was here to change the world for the better. It was naive, of course; it was why he had spent so much time helping her grow professionally. Had given her hours of duel practice, drills until her wand arm ached and her spells snapped out crisp, pushed her reports back to her with the mistakes circled in red. She hated it, he knew she had hated it, champing at the bit and demanding at every turn to know why he gave the orders he did. Given time, and a bit more experience, she would understand what he had been preparing her for. 

She would have been a great successor, experienced and well-versed in the intricacies of the law, in reading between its lines. One who wouldn’t always appease the Congress, but who surely would do the right thing and have the knowledge to get away with it. 

It’s a pity she hadn’t seen through Grindelwald’s disguise. He tried to leave it at that, fight down a crushing sense of disappointment. He might have let himself hope she had a… a good reason for it, as someone who had worked closely with him in the months before Grindelwald. Something — disqualifying, some interference that would have kept her from noticing any differences. 

Well… from what he heard, she did not. No far-ranging assignment, no Unforgivable curses. Just... 

At first, all she could manage were stuttered apologies. Then explanations, of how she was transferred from the auror department to the wand registry for attacking Mary Lou Barebone. Disheartened; offended even, because he — no, Grindelwald — was the one to suggest it. Guilt leaked through her words as she spoke. 

It left him cold. He nodded, pretending he could parse them, that he was able to understand, but, well. The most he managed was to nod and bite back the cruelties that sat in his throat and choked him. It didn’t matter. There was no way to change what had already happened.

Tina briefly mentioned that Newt was released from the hospital a couple of days ago and that his beasts were unharmed. A frown appeared on Percival’s face — one of concern, but she must have misinterpreted, because she never mentioned Scamander again. Just like the medics. 

It was strange to be on this side of the equation, though Percival could guess the why of it. The way Newt had found him, that inexplicable knowledge of his whereabouts hinted strongly at a connection with Grindelwald’s supporters. Percival’s own incompetence at escaping all those months was equally suspect, in MACUSA’s eyes. She had probably said too much already, and he leaves it. Better not to make things worse, in case she’s tiptoeing on the edge of the law again. He isn’t entirely sure that she was even technically allowed to visit. 

As soon as doctors deemed him healthy enough to be interrogated, he is. It is surprisingly unremarkable, though a bit tedious; the same questions for some few hours, the wording rearranged to trip him up with implied accusations. A technique he recognises, but certainly not the most efficient one. There was veritaserum in the glass of water they pushed toward him, he knew, just as he knew that the doctors had advised the court against it. Not the best for head injuries, or memory problems.

He drinks it, a few quick gulps, the crisp warmth of the potion leaving him even more hollowed. He doesn’t take it personally, he’d do the same. Had, in fact; he’d done the same many times. It’s just a bit strange, to be on this other side of the table. 

He has nothing to hide, and tries to tell exactly what Grindelwald had done, a retrospective of what he’d talked about and what he had planned, gloating merrily to his captive audience. Percival tries to remember specific names, places the dark wizard mentioned, but… 

...but veritaserum does nothing to help him remember what MACUSA needed. 

Passing the time as an inanimate object wasn’t especially good for one’s health, not for some months. The brain doesn’t care for that sort of trick, and Percival has trouble concentrating and remembering exactly what happened and how. The general outline of events was still clear — he could remember exactly the feeling of the floor beneath him and the wainscotting at his back and the color of the dust in the crannies, but finer details slip away as if they were never there. He can’t even recall the names of all the aurors who had given their lives that night, just the fear and fury of watching them fall, every face etched into the backs of his eyelids. 

The hearing deciding his fate followed shortly after. 

In the eyes of law, he hadn’t done enough to protect his department, nor MACUSA and the wider magical world. He was deemed incompetent, ultimately, in the execution of his duty. He ought to have stayed in the office that night. Congress was kind enough to acknowledge the lack of malice, but his arrogance in leading the team had lead to… to this, a multitude of sins and the only barely averted discovery of their world. 

He bows his head under the weight, and agrees, wondering if he’ll be able to stand when they’re finished. 

He answers Congress’ questions quietly, blinking steadily at the far wall as blank spot after blank spot loomed in his mind. No amount of desire to share as much information as possible could shift the impenetrable fog. No line of questioning gave any clarity. 

Congress doesn’t fire him on the spot, no. He’s sentenced to no punishment for his hubris — it’s no real crime to be weak, and the situation was dealt with now. But the conclusion of the hearing hints strongly that it would be better, if he resigned of his own free will. MACUSA’s needed their auror department to be strong, to move forward past this embarrassment and into a new era of security for the magical society of America. 

So he does. 

With papers filled and his wand returned to him, there is nothing more to do for him at MACUSA. The belongings in his office have been impounded for the investigation, so there’s nothing to take home, and he wants to leave as quietly as possible, with minimal fuss. 

Let MACUSA move on, and leave him to lick his wounds privately.

Seraphina stops him in front of the elevator. 

“Val, wait,” she calls after him, making him blink at the casual use of his name, as if she no longer felt bound by work relationship they had. _ Had _ had. “Don’t you want to talk?”

He doesn’t. 

In fact, he can’t stand the notion that she could act as if—as if nothing has happened. It’s a stab of betrayal as cold as a curse to the back, and yet, he can’t find enough strength to argue with his…old friend. Can only stand, chilled to the bone, while she comes near, and follow her dumbly through the halls winding back to her office.

So they talk. She apologises. She offers to help — perhaps, to find another job, perhaps, as a part-time consultant in MACUSA? 

He laughs. Wonders if he’ll choke on it. Wonders if he’ll weep. Doesn’t do either, manages even to stifle the laughter before it turns eerie.

“You know, it doesn’t sound tempting. Coming back like that, after all this.”

Seraphina doesn’t answer, and they sit in silence in her office for a good couple of minutes, before she spoke again. 

“You should at least press charges against Mr. Scamander,” she said softly. “Before you go.” 

Percival stared at her, startled as a deer in the headlights. 

“I’m sorry?”

“For what he did to you.”

“_ Did _ to me — splinching was an accident! It could happen to anyone, and you know it.”

“You think I’m talking about apparation? No, Val, it’s far worse—He _ kept _ you, for two whole weeks! With no adequate help. If he’d brought you here sooner, our healers might have had a chance to help you. Percival, I really think — he is the main reason why you can’t remember half of your best aurors’ names.”

What she said was perhaps true, to some extent — more advanced medical care might have helped, but Percival couldn’t bring himself to blame anybody (except for Grindelwald, who actually did it) for what happened to him, let alone Newt. 

Newt was the one who had found him, Out of all the people who might have, and he was the one who had come, had managed to bring him back. It was all that mattered, really. 

He took a careful breath.

“I don’t care what you think, Sera; at least not right now. All I know is that Grindelwald is to blame for what he did it to me, and that if it wasn’t for Newt, I would have frozen to death on that island in short order. I’m grateful for being alive, so let me be.” 

He tried to speak softly, as if there wasn’t any irritation and anger rising inside his chest, but those emotions must have shown through anyway, since Sera’s eyes went hard at his words.

“You’re only saying that because Scamander is your Lyrical, aren’t you?”

“This is none of your business,” he finally snapped, standing up. “I’m sorry, I really have to go.”

Without pausing to hear any further arguments, he left. 

He had no strength to prove anything to anyone right now. All Percival wanted was to have some peace and quiet. To figure out what to do with his life now, when all he treasured before was gone. His mind was going blank too often for his comfort, he feared that his magic wouldn’t be the same either. It was hard to accept that nothing was the same anymore, but he had to. The confidence he once had vanished, and even familiar streets of New York seemed foreign. 

His apartment was dark, even though it was daytime outside: the spell Grindelwald had put on the windows remained, showing the same summer’s night scenery. Percival felt a shiver running down his spine as he entered the room he was kept captive in. He didn’t remember much, but it was just enough for him to feel uneasy. 

Lumos spell casted light on dusty shelves and books, scattered on the floor. Percival let a mirthless laugh escape his throat. His old department had searched his flat, of course, and that made it seem even more foreign. Someone else’s. Grindelwald’s.

With a sigh and a wave of his wand Percival made the books take their places on the shelves and vanished the dust, before proceeding to clean the rest of his apartment. 

He’d lost his home. Not literally, perhaps, but. He’d have to make it his own again. The only problem was all the differences are only inside his head. Nothing’s changed, not really. Just him.

He tried to break the spell covering the windows, and found himself struggling with it so much that lumos wavers and flickers — his magic seemed to have left together with his confidence. Well, then. He’d have to tolerate this view a little longer. 

The doctors said that he will recover, eventually. One day. 

Percival decided to sleep on the couch that night; decided that it would have been too hard for him to get any sleep in the room Grindelwald occupied for six months. Again, nothing was out of place, not anymore, but just the thought of it was sickening. 

As it happens, moving to the other room did nothing to help, anxiety keeping him awake all night, as he kept glancing at the clock. It was seven a.m. when he finally abandoned his efforts to sleep and dragged himself to the kitchen. Ironically enough, there was still coffee in the pantry, his favourite, a newly started pack. Oh, Grindelwald loved tiny details, didn’t he? Either way, this was one thing the bastard couldn’t spoil. Coffee was good. And it was a great way to start his day with. 

After breakfast, Percival spent more than two hours in front of a mirror, perfecting glamouring charms on his face. Transfiguration was something he had always been good at, so, despite his lack of magical strength, he managed it just fine. Pity it was only temporary, a half-measure, but accepting his scars could wait. He didn’t care about them, but he did care about pity glances and whispers behind his back which came with them.

He wouldn’t have bothered with it, but he really wanted to buy a new plant to replace Goldstein sisters’ gift which so ingloriously perished. He thought about getting a magical one this time, preferably...

— something very, very poisonous; death before dishonor, and he’ll never stay trapped in his flat ever again—

...preferably something that blooms. 

To do so… Unicorn Lane was a perfect place for shopping. The only magical street in New York, filled to the brim with whatever the heart desires, from charmed clothing accessories to the rarest potion ingredients one could legally find. 

Percival grimly planned to take the longest route along the shops, have a look at everything they had there. Perhaps, it might brighten his mood a bit. If nothing else, it got him away from this apartment. And then he could… stop and pay a visit to the Goldsteins, ask them about Newt’s whereabouts, now that the trials are over.

What Percival didn’t expect as he jogged down the stairs, was meeting Scamander right outside his doorstep. He nearly stumbled, the first chord of their song sounding loudly in his head, wanting to be played. His Lyrical was right there, sitting on top of his case, smile appearing on his face as he spotted Percival. 

“It’s good to… I mean… Hi!” Newt almost whispers it, seemingly overtaken by his usual meekness, but even his whisper is like honey for Percival. Sweet and warm. Soothing, even. Music to his ears. 

But Newt doesn’t look well. He is much paler than Percival remembers him: his movements are strained, as he stands, and his left arm is in a sling. 

“I, um. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry,” Newt continues, picking up his case, “For the — the failed apparation, that is. I didn’t expect that… the island… Tina said it was somewhere along the Icelandic coast. I didn’t know it was this far, and so…”

“You — you don’t need to apologise, Newt,” Percival gently places a hand on his shoulder. “It wasn't your fault.”

“But Tina, she told me that you… that your eye…”

“I’m fine. Newt, look at me.” 

A glance peeks up at him and Newt smiles tentatively, with a slight sad undertone which Percival cannot quite get. It's amazing how Newt cared enough to come here, to find him again and even apologise for things which were incomparable in size to how much he helped. 

“She was probably mistaken. I’m fine.” Percival lies, soft smile on his lips. “But you?”

“I’m okay.” Newt smiles a bit wider, touching Percival’s hand lightly “It’s a bit uncomfortable, but it could have been worse.”

It’s true. They could have been torn to pieces. But they are both...fine. 

They end up on the Unicorn Lane together, choosing silver spoons and crooning over mandrakes and potted aconites, but none of the plants catches Percival’s eye.

— Aconite meets his every need. Deadly, yet so beautiful. He nearly lifts one, in it’s pretty blue pot.

But he dares not buy one now. Not with his soulmate beside him—

Maybe he doesn’t want to have a _ plant _ after all. It was a gift that he truly missed; the dieffenbachia had marked a connection he’d enjoyed, and had served as joy and relaxation. Now, well, there was no connection to foster. A shame, but it wasn’t like he could ask the Goldsteins to bring him a replacement.

He invites Newt to dinner in one of the less magical cafes, and magizoologist, startled, accepts. Conversation flows smoothly, it’s Newt who talks for the most part, telling Percival about those four days in New York, how he met Tina and her sister, and how they had to say goodbye to their no-maj friend. 

“The Goldsteins are nice. Tina was a pleasure to work with. You’re still staying with them?” Percival asks, and sees how dramatically Newt’s expression changes. He looks… almost panicked. 

“I… kind of overstayed my welcome, I’m afraid.”

That comes as a surprise for Pecrival. Both Goldsteins have always seemed entirely too kind-hearted to actually kick somebody out. 

“Are you going back to England, then?”

“I have a ticket… but it’s in a week, so…”

There’s a discrepancy here, something settling poorly, but Percival lets it go. Newt hasn’t yet offered him any intentional harm, and it isn’t his job, any longer, to thwart wrong-doing.

“You can stay at my place, if you want to. I’ll help you with your creatures, too.” This offer comes startlingly easy, without a second of doubt. Percival wonders whether it has something to do with their musical connection. 

Newt accepts, and looks almost suspiciously happy as he goes on rambling about his creatures and a book he is writing. Percival listens to him, content, almost losing himself to the sound of his Lyrical’s voice. He doesn't notice when he starts humming a melody. It’s not their song, it’s something else entirely, and yet it comes just as naturally. 

They reach Percival’s apartment as evening falls on the city, and Percival is quietly relieved to find that the spell on the windows doesn’t seem too obvious. Newt hesitates before entering, shifting from one foot to the other. 

“Come on in,” Percival says. “I will show you where everything is.”

And he does. 

Bedroom, study, living room, kitchen. Straightforward, even if the blanket he'd clutched during the night was still twisted on the sofa, giving away far too much. He smiles and tries to pretend that everything is fine. 

He does not have a guest room, so he offers Newt the bedroom. 

The magizoologist immediately refuses, a flurry of looking away and mumbling that he was going to sleep inside his case anyway. Percival nods, and thinks that it’s probably amazing to have a portable world. Something no one could steal or alter — and if anybody tried, they would likely be devoured by one of its inhabitants.

The tour is anything but extensive — his apartment isn’t all that large — but mercifully is’t long until feeding time for Newt’s creatures. As promised, Percival follows him, eager to help so Newt doesn’t have to put strain on his injured hand. 

Descending inside the case gives him an entirely new understanding of how much loss of one eye’s vision affects him. It’s harder to measure distance, yes, he’d noticed that at the hospital — he’s got to reach for things carefully, got to walk cautiously to avoid making a fool of himself. But in a space like Newt’s case, where everything is chaotic and alive with movement, it’s even more of a challenge; he bumps into one of the shelves, and not just once. 

Newt gives him a questioning look, but he waves it off — explains it away, he’s probably just a little tired, a bit clumsy after all the time in the hospital. He’s fine, really. He promises to pay more attention to what’s around him, be a bit more careful. 

It’s embarrassing to lie. More so, because Newt isn’t some random stranger or even one of Percival’s colleagues, they share a soul. Lying to a soulmate, some say, is like lying to yourself. 

Denying having been injured had been a foolish thing to lie about, now that he’s dragged the man home. It had been an instinctive sort of thing, the mistruth tripping off his tongue easily to keep guilt from spreading pain over Newt’s face. Now he thinks that he’s only making it all worse. No one wants a lying soulmate. 

But even that small creeping dread is a welcome distraction from the ugly wrong feeling his home brings, and despite his lack of affinity for magical creatures, he’s profoundly glad to escape down here to them. Perhaps it has to do with the calm Newt’s presence brings, or maybe it’s the way even the Nundu purrs after getting his portion of freshly cut meat. The huge beast even allows Percival to pet him carefully, with Newt’s encouragement. 

“Mathias is a remarkably gentle kitten,” the magizoologist says with a smile and proceeds to tell a story of how this “kitten” happened to be in his care. The story is, Percival thinks, probably quite standard. Smuggling, awful conditions and cruelty. He’s seen it all before, and he’s glad that the beast wasn’t just “eradicated” as his own department had to do on numerous occasions. 

“It’s amazing, what you do,” Percival quietly offers. “How much love you put into all of this.”

Newt doesn’t answer, just blushes and looks away, embarrassed at the praise. Percival wants to give him a pat on the shoulder, or a hug, or pet his hair — his hands nearly itch with the urge. But he doesn’t attempt any of it. 

They aren’t close. They barely know one another, and Newt doesn’t look like someone who likes casual touches and physical contact: too shy, startled too easily. He even avoids eye contact when he can, so, it’s probably best not to bother him too much. After all, Percival doesn’t want to cause him any discomfort by his presence. 

Another hour passes, and it’s well-past a polite time to wish Newt goodnight and leave him to his own night-time rituals in the privacy of his case. Climbing carefully back up, Percival hopes that the warmth curled inside his chest will be enough to help him get a good night’s sleep. Tries to hold it there, soft and light like occamy-down. 

It isn’t. 

The pleasant feeling disappears as soon as he straightens up away from the case and his glance moves around the lonely shadows his furniture carves through the room, to once again land on the window. He should have asked Newt for help, and he — well, he forgot to. Hadn’t wanted to think of it, and...hadn’t. Until now. 

He pulls the curtains closed with shaking hands, but it doesn’t help, not really. 

He just has to calm down. He has to do something about the anxiety that washes over him, anything. He grabs up a bottle of firewhiskey as he passes the sideboard, but shoves it back after a second of thought, having frozen at how comfortable it had felt to do so. He wasn’t the type of man who had drowned his sorrows in liquor before Grindelwald, and he wasn’t keen on beginning now. 

His heart races, as he measures the rooms with steps. Like a caged tiger — six strides lengthwise, four broad — his wand sits tightly in his hand, the only thing that feels like an anchor, keeping him from spiralling into mindless panic. 

If he just... sits down. Breathes. Closes his eyes and thinks of something nice, perhaps he will be able to wait through the night. 

He can’t make his knees bend as he passes the sofa, nor on the second circuit around the room. Instead he washes up where he probably oughtn’t — stares into the hall mirror, watching the charms slowly fade away, revealing a scar. It’s taken half of his face. 

At least he doesn’t look like Grindelwald. Or like himself. 

Not anymore. 

Percival sinks to the floor with his back to the wall, never taking eyes of his own reflection, as if waiting for it to move, to flinch, to mock him, like his captor sometimes did. His fears slowly eat on little energy he has left, and he falls asleep right there, folded on the floor, his wand still clutched tightly in his hand. 

He wakes late. Autumn sun shines dimly through the bedroom window, and he yawns, folding his fingers into his blanket and pulling up, wanting to steal another few minutes of sleep before finally waking up completely… 

He freezes at the thought. The hand holding the blankets ought to be knotted tight around his wand.

A blanket? Sun in the window? The last thing he remembers was staring at his own face in the mirror at an absurd angle. And… the thought of somebody _ moving _ him. Taking him to a different place… and he didn’t even wake up! His breath chokes, wobbles harder still when his eyes won’t clear properly no matter how his eyelids flutter. Remembering the hospital is enough to breathe out — wasn’t Grindelwald who took his sight and flattened it, just an accident, something that anyone might have suffered — but it hitches again as soon as he manages to empty his lungs, as panic overtakes him and makes it impossible to drag a new breath in. He’d only have a single chanсe, and if he couldn’t _ aim _—

He freezes again at a human shape in his limited peripheral sight. Hardly dares to try and breathe, until he can dip his chin slowly enough to see. Until he sees Newt: seated on the very edge of the bed, dozens of notes and drawings of magical creatures on pieces of paper floating around him—he’s been writing something in his notebook, and only just stopped, at Percival’s gasping.

“Good morning,” magizoologist greets him simply, and doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t look up at him with any of them in his gaze, although Percival thinks he should — should demand to know what’s wrong with him, should demand accountability. But Newt acts as if nothing, absolutely nothing is wrong or strange in this situation, and Percival is… thankful, that he doesn’t have to explain everything right now. 

“Morning,” he replies, lowering his head back onto the pillows. 

He gets a shockingly long reprieve: it isn’t until lunch that Newt finally broaches the subject of what he’s seen, and even then, he pries in his own gentle way. 

“I know I’m not the best when it comes to talking, but if you ever need to… I mean, if you_ want to _ talk about what happened here, you can talk to me.” 

Percival can’t help but smile at him. At the kindness of him, that he’s offering his time and attention—that he’s offering not to pry. Without even being asked. 

“Thank you. But I don’t think there’s anything to talk about, really.”

It’s a lie. Worse, it’s an obvious lie, just the details tucked behind the untruth of it. The way the dark scares him, the way he flinches at a glimpse of his own reflection. The way his mind wanders back to poisonous plants in a pretty blue pot on his windowsill. 

He’s sure that, if he’s left alone, he will inevitably turn into a panicking wreck — how long had he lasted, between climbing out of the suitcase and collapsing in the hall? A few minutes? Probably won't survive a week, without someone else’s presence dragging him back to sanity. And now… he’s going to have entirely too much free time on his hands without the cases and politics and work of MACUSA. He needs to find something, anything to do, or he’s going to find out exactly how efficiently his brain can shred itself with the combined strength of boredom and anxiety. 

Newt leaves in five days, so that’s all the time he has, until it’s just him and this not-his home. 

Two more days pass by, the time slipping away as if it had never been there at all. Percival feels safe with Newt near, and it’s good, but at the same time… the inevitability of his soulmate leaving adds to panic he can still feel at the back of his mind. Percival feels as if all the colour is washing away from the world around him, with Newt remaining the only bright spot, as he tries to come up with a strategy for his life with zero success. He isn’t particularly good at anything non-related with his former position; wouldn’t want to start from scratch and learn anew, too. He could have opted for teaching future aurors, yes, but if he failed his country, his men so much, did he really have a right to teach a new generation of aurors? Also — nobody would probably consider him an authority, after what happened. 

He cannot stop thinking. Cannot escape the notion that with his soulmate gone, there will be no colours left at all. 

No matter how he belabors his capabilities, competencies — all ideas about some “new life” are trapped away from his mental grasp. Somewhere inside a transparent web, woven from the winter fog and twilight shine of the moon outside the window, above the trees, as coherent and tangible as a fairytale. He has, simply put, _ no idea _ what he would like to do. 

He… has always been an auror. He’s been happy, as an auror. Fulfilled, even. And he’d let it become everything. There are no hobbies, no close friends — just nothing — his work was all he ever had. Wanted. 

There are auror-adjacent positions. They come with colleagues who failed him as thoroughly as he failed them, come as booby-trapped as a Pharaoh’s tomb with the spectors of past failures. They come with pitying looks and not-quite-muffled coffee-room jeers. 

If he deserves them, and he fully allows that he might, he still cannot bear them.

Percival stands at the window with a cup of coffee in his hand. Habit drags his eyes to the crevice between buildings, where he can glimpse the park, and wearily he looks at the dark silhouettes of trees, motionless among the whitish sea of clouds and fog. A sudden thought crosses his mind — it makes no sense, staying in the city any longer. His feelings, the greyness of the world closing around his shoulders like his coat.... the transparent apathy seem almost inappropriate for New York, it’s fever-grip on life, with its sharp-edged rush, the speed and colours it dressed itself in. It has been a writhing masquerade ball, New York, ever since the War, rejecting death with gaiety. 

And he… 

This type of melancholy is better suited for his family mansion, to the quiet and the steady, stately decay of a time lost. Which he left behind so long ago, eager for the rush of work, of puzzles to solve. 

Perhaps it was finally time to go home — truly home. To get a new perspective, to stop torturing himself with memories like curses, embedded in his wainscotting.

— to continue sinking into his anguish over things bygone, in the midst of nature and what once used to be luxury — 

Will it ache more, to be alone, where he grew up, when Newt goes? Will it be a comfort, halls free of his presence, no fading scent to catch, no memory of how his voice moved through the space, of how the light through the windows catches in his hair? 

Still, it was too early to make a proper decision. He could take a look first, though. See if the old place is even still standing. See if he can keep standing, alone, with the hollowing reassurance of another few days of Newt if he finds he can’t. Prepare for the worst, and get out of this damned apartment in this infernal city. 

“Where are you going?” Newt asks, finding him wrapping up sandwiches, twins of the one he’d been planning on taking down the treacherous stairs of the case before he left. 

“Oh,” he says, like a fool. Hadn’t expected that, he thinks, and is torn between being warmed and a twisting cagey urge to dissemble. “Er. Home — my parents’ home. The family, er, seat. Just, uh, checking up on it. Haven’t, you know. Since.”

“Oh, how lovely. I’ll get the case ready.” 

He doesn’t ask — it seems he doesn’t even think to ask. As if there are no questions to be asked — as if it cannot be any other way, then they would of course go together. 

Persival casts a glance from the sandwiches to Newt. “Why,” he thinks, “Why bother, if you’re still going in a couple of days?”

“I — I would like to spend more time with you,” Newt adds, like an answer to Percival’s silent question. He supposed it was probably easy to read in his expression; he wasn’t, after all, trying to hide any of his thoughts. 

Suffering alone seems nobler, somehow, but really, there’s no reason for it, with Newt eagerly readying the case. Nothing really to be gained for it, and Newt’s happiness hanging in the balance — there’s nothing left to do, but to shrug and nod his acceptance of Newt tagging along. 

They apparate to the edge of the forest together, and once their feet are on the ground, Percival waits a couple of seconds in the sunbeam stillness before letting Newt go. 

He doesn’t quite know why. 

(He does. But he’s a liar, these days.)

Newt doesn’t ask. He doesn’t pull away, either.

They walk between the trees, a slow meandering that weaves with with little discernible purpose. There is no path, not in this part of the woods. Just the crunch of leaves and a thin rime of crackling snow beneath their shoes, the dapple of pale autumn sun through the trees. 

Perhaps he ought to have taken them straight to the mansion. It was a surprise, a small one, that Newt isn’t questioning him for it — he thinks he probably would have, if their positions had been reversed. In the country it is colder, enough to nip bright color into Newt’s cheeks. He can feel winter’s approach, the chill settling onto his tongue and tickling across his skin like a promise. 

As a child, winter was Percival’s favourite time of the year. The endlessly-bright days, with whiteness extending out into the horizon, broken only by the dark stripes of trees. In darkness of summer evenings things could hide—he knew that better than ever, now — but amidst the white stilled nature, even when the shadows were deep, there was safety in the warnings nature offered up. He’d spent long hours in his youth, tramping through the mansion’s grounds, learning the tracks of the small predators, the little creatures that hid and hunted through the cold-bright woods — learning what safety meant, in the deep shadows. It has always seemed to him that he could spend hours and hours of time, just staring at the sky, covered with formless grey clouds, and listening to the howling whistle of the wind. 

_ Wind blows cold _

_ Over the willows _

_ The sky is bruised _

The sound of Newt’s voice amid the gentle surrusus of the woods almost makes him flinch at first. It takes him several moments to adjust, the intrusion of human noises into a forest that’s half a memory, but by then, it so harmoniously intertwines in the rustle of fallen foliage beneath a thin layer of snow under their feet that he wonders if he’ll ever see these woods without the murmur of his Lyric’s voice in the back of his head. If anyone but Newt had been singing, it wouldn’t have interfered with Percival’s silent contemplation — Newt’s pitched his voice low enough that it’s only a thread of sound, so soft it takes a moment for meaning to follow through. Instead, every word is impossibly distracting, as they approach the stream with its banks cut higher than he remembers.

Probably, it’s too high for the little stepping bridge of large stones that he’d used so many years ago; and far more treacherous now that he can’t trust his depth perception. They’re going to have to go around, somehow.

_ Bridge slung high _

_ Over the river _

_ Every step _

_ Shakes and shivers _

He looks, startled — he hadn’t realized Newt’s song was anything more than a snippet of a song learned somewhere during his extensive travels. But it can’t be — Percival doesn’t believe in coincidence, not really — because there is indeed a bridge over the creek, a few paces more, obscured enough by brush and a poor angle of approach that it had slipped neatly into his much-expanded blindspot. Wide enough to walk across safely, yet almost certainly still shaky, just a few boards nailed together stretching across the water... 

Percival turns around, stopping abruptly in the middle of their unmarked path and looks back at his companion — the only bright spot in the transparently gray forest. Newt looks at him in reflex, and freezes for a second. He breaks away from Percival’s gaze with a glance down at the river, and then closes his eyes altogether, listening to the flow of water and the rustling of reeds below if the way his head tilts is any indication. 

There are a thousand emotions surging through him with the interaction, but Newt opens his eyes again well before Percival can even begin to parse them; he dodges around the obstacle Percival makes in the landscape, walks a few long-legged steps to the middle of the bridge. 

The silhouette he makes is visceral, and the emotions he inspires so tangled between sweet and thorny, that Percival finds himself glued to the spot, entirely frozen for no reason Percival Graves would ever before have considered adequate. 

_ Water laughs _

_ Out in whispers _

_ She’ll take anything _

_ That you give her _

Newt puts down his case on the bridge between them before he returns, and takes him by the hand — so strange — by both hands. This is probably the first time that their eye contact lasts so long. Long enough to make out, finally, that Newt’s eyes are grassy-green with a slight warm yellow undertone, that he has fluffy eyelashes and absolutely charming faded freckles on his cheekbones. Newt continues singing about him. For him.

_ It’s okay _

_ Wash away _

_ Every trace _

_ What remains _

_ It’s okay _

_ It’s not too late _

_ To find your way _

_ Clean again _

Newt must have noticed Pecival’s persistent depressive mood — of course, it was impossible to miss. A man blinder than Percival himself wouldn’t have been able to miss it. Perhaps, he even understood why they had come here in the first place, and his song was his way of trying to help. The gesture both bold and so bruisingly tender — Lyricals, after all, had magic woven into the words they sang. It’s strange — is it strange? That Newt is building a melody so easily to go with his lyrics, but Percival doesn’t acknowledge it, can’t look at the knowledge that he doesn’t hear this tune in his head. He looks at his soulmate, instead, mesmerized and stunned by the words that flow so smoothly. 

_ Leaves float by _

_ On the current _

_ Tide won’t turn _

_ Till you turn it _

Newt goes silent, watching Percival as the song slowly fades from the woods, replaced by tentative forest sounds. And he doesn’t let go of his hands. Silence stretches for what feels like forever, it presses, pressure piling on, it almost hurts and then…

“I have two tickets to England, actually,” he says, looking away, at the river below. “I thought that maybe ...”

When Newt doesn't sing, he seems far less confident. Like the shyness in him is afraid of the music, or as if singing is the main weapon of his courage.

“... maybe you could come with me,” he finally exhales, gathering his thoughts and looks up once more. “If you want to. Only if you want to.”

Percival looks at him, holds his hands, and does not know what to say in response. Newt has wanted him to come along all this time, from the first day they met after hospital. And yet, he didn’t tell him. Why? 

Was he afraid of being rejected? Or simply too shy to tell? 

No, Percival knows Newt now, a little better. Knows his kindness, and his patience, and he’s abruptly sure this was neither of those — Newt probably wanted to give him space, understanding how hard the situation was. Didn’t want to push it, and so found himself waiting for a moment when it would have been appropriate to say. 

He loves him for it.

“I want to go with you,” Percival replies quietly, “Very much.”

The smile Newt gives him is warmer than any winter coat, than any scarf, charmed with dozens spells. 

They never make it to the mansion of Percival’s family; instead, they go back to New York, to pack. 

This time, Percival will take more than just sandwiches with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, they are finally going to travel together!


	4. 6 Morceaux, S. Rachmaninoff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a very long time, but I've finally finished this chapter.

Newly released from MACUSA’s hospital ward and still achingly tense from having been thoroughly interrogated, Newt is sat in the Goldsteins’ kitchen, watching the hand-shake ripples in a cup of tea with brooding eyes. He should have been in London weeks ago, yet here he is, caught in the epicenter of chaos. 

New York surely seems a place where one might never feel bored; his schedule’s been packed with excitement for weeks now: from the niffler robbing a bank, to dueling a Dark Wizard, to finding his soulmate left on a deserted island far out at sea. His soulmate who had been replaced by the Dark Wizard. Who was, additionally, supposed to die.

Who may yet, for all he knew — the medics had refused to say. 

New York has certainly been exciting.

“Newt, listen, your song isn’t that sad. You know, we are all going to die one day. Your lyrics, they just say that even death won’t ruin your Ensemble. What’s so bad about it? It’s poetic, even. Romantic.”

“It’s not about the lyrics. Or the melody. This feeling, when I played his part, it hurt so much… And before you say it — it didn’t change when he was the one playing. It still hurt. Every word. Every note.”

Newt knew Tina had nothing to say to that. And how could she, now? He knew that she — Newt could recognize romantic interest when he saw it — she cared about his feelings and wanted the best for him. He almost wished he hadn’t touched those sheets of paper. He could have… he could have tried to, well… respond somehow. The soft swell of something budding and sweet between them had been...nice. But now, all he could think of was his soulmate. 

His soulmate, whom he has hurt, and badly, if what Tina told him is true. His soulmate, her boss, deeply admired.

New York has been entirely a mess.

She gently caressed his back and whispered words of reassurance he can’t really make out. She’d thanked him for bringing Percival back, and been drowned out by the ringing in his ears. That had been back when the tea had been hot; the ringing’s eased by now but anything like comfort was... well, it hasn’t gone well as of yet.

At the least, he has to apologise. To say that… that he’s sorry for what has happened. That he is sorry that he didn’t have the courage to return to New York sooner, that he didn’t have enough concentration to even apparate in one piece. For...for failing, to get them back from that god forsaken island in the middle of nowhere. 

He had bought two tickets for the ship, just in case. In case some miracle occurred, and somehow it all... turned out alright. 

He doesn’t let himself hope. Not now.

Newt had brought a little hope with him, when he met Percival again that first time, standing case-in-hand on his stoop. It had been a tentative, wavering sort of thing, that hope; he’d snuffed it out on the nervous jangle of Percival’s lies. Hope was a cruelty to keep around when he could sense how Percival felt— how  _ bleakly _ he saw the world around him, and Newt… he couldn’t stand it. 

He couldn’t say whether he wanted to build a lasting relationship with Percival, but… he sure didn’t want to see him being lost like that. Didn’t want to see his soulmate hurting. Wanted to do something to help. It was the least he could do, after — 

Wanted to help him break away from the place he couldn’t call home any longer, corrupted by dark wizard’s presence and his own struggles.

He was so glad that Percival accepts his invitation. That Percival doesn’t… seem to find him annoying. 

Tina walked them to the ship. She had offered, and the offer had been so sincere that he couldn’t say no, even if he wanted to — which he didn’t. Tina’s presence was a welcome one, in the short length of his stay in New York he found in her a good friend; she seemed to be a kindred soul, somehow, until he found out that she wasn’t. That what he felt toward her didn’t matter. Didn’t  _ really  _ matter, because now there was Percival, and she will have to remain exactly what she was now — a good friend, even if Newt’s heart sometimes hinted him that it wanted — perhaps, maybe, probably — more. Ensemble will always have to come first. Even if he was unsure of whether or not this relationship would last, he will choose his soulmate over — potential romance, love, and perhaps, even, family — a good friend. 

Newt had to admit that it felt awkward, chatting to her with Percival walking behind, following them like a shadow. But he couldn’t force the man to participate, nor could he ask Tina to leave. 

He hated how hard human interactions were. Hopefully, it would turn out to be just fine. 

He almost kissed Tina goodbye. Almost, because he felt that Percival was watching, because he was too shy to actually do it, because he was not sure whether Tina indeed wanted him to do it — he gently tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear and promised to bring her a copy of his book instead. That, she didn’t seem to mind. She then said goodbye to Percival — Mr. Graves — and wished him the best of luck in Europe. 

“Who knows,” she said with a soft smile. “Maybe you will become Head of Magical Security in the British Ministry.”

They both knew that was an impossibility, but Percival played along, saying his ‘Maybe’ in a dreamy voice, as if changing countries was his life-long desire. He told her that he believed in her, as an auror. In her sense of justice. 

Eventually, Tina left, and Newt stared after her for a long thoughtful moment. He hadn’t any notion, still, about what could have been going through her mind. 

Was she glad that they were leaving together, he and Percival? Did she feel a bit jealous that she couldn’t be in Percival’s place? Or his? Or...perhaps she was just seeing off a boss, who’d been kind once and was struggling now. Tina was a nice person, after all. 

He would bring her his book in person. One day, when it was published. 

And he would write, as promised. He looked forward to it, really. 

The boarding call brought him out of his musings. He looked to Percival, about to suggest they find their berth and found the man was even more painfully straight-backed than usual. Distracted too, he just stood there, glaring at the ship as if it were his bitterest enemy. 

“Are you okay?” Newt carefully asked, and… Percival jumped a bit, turning away from the boat as he snapped out of it. 

“I’m fine. It’s just… it looks exactly like its sister,” he trails off and forces a smile.    
  


In fact, it was just now that Percival realised: this boat they had tickets for was terribly familiar. A ship whose younger, flashier twin had sunk on her maiden voyage, two years before the war. 

It hadn’t been a strictly magical ship — lots of people had died. No-maj by the hundreds. Some magic-folk too, unable to make it in one piece to the land, splinching or simply drowning like the rest. Pure-blood nobles, influential families, who had met to discuss world politics and treaties in the most prestigious venue of the time. Powerful people, whose power didn’t ultimately do a thing to help them.

He had a ticket still. He had been supposed to be there too, but his big case had broken after months of work, and a conviction was assured—if his report was clear enough, precise and perfect enough.. He’d been young still; eager to prove himself to a hard-ass captain, and just as eager to keep away from the grasping, twittering hoard of eligible young ladies and their marriage-minded mamas who ran in his parents’ lofty circles. He remembered how his sister looked at him, her eyes full of disappointed scorn, as she grabbed the port-key to Southampton, where their parents waited. It was the last time he ever saw her.

He chose to stay behind; unfinished paperwork that had seemed so vital in the moment. 

It was an unfinished report that had saved his life, in the end. 

He remembered — waking with a shout, jerking up from the surface of his desk to the echoing gloom of the office well after midnight. Fallen asleep over that all-important report 

A terrible dream had been pounding through his head. Prophetic, as it turned out — his family’s doom, moving in a sluggish black-and-white, like the pictures in the Ghost.

He couldn’t remember if the report had ever gotten finished.

He was the only Graves left. There were no other survivors, none that he cared about, or that cared in return. He’d presented a letter of resignation, effective immediately— that hardass captain had ripped it in two, and put him on bereavement leave. He hadn’t even made it to the funeral. The funeral, which  _ his friends _ organized, and  _ not him _ . Missed it by hours, and arrived to find human-sized piles of fresh-turned dirt, all in a neat little row. He’d stood staring until he fell over, drunk on nothing but regret, and lay still until he was sure the chill of a late spring night, the splintering of self that came from weeping until he couldn’t, until he was half-blind with the thirsty head-ache and hollow with days of hunger, would set him down the same path. 

He should have been there too. Perhaps a stronger man could have stood up, and made himself at peace, but Percival drowned in hating himself.

Two months had ticked over; Seraphina Piquery had dragged him back to work. Almost literally. 

“Be strong, Val,” she had told him, and left him skinny and hollow-eyed in the dusty little office he didn’t remember having earned, his badge strangely shaped in his hand. 

Be strong, Val, he had thought, and retrieved a case file. And another. And then a third. And he tried to be, his dedication to MACUSA fiercer, his shifts longer, his missions flawlessly executed. There wasn’t anything left to care about, so his work expanded effortlessly to take the time he fed it. That hardass captain retired, and Percival had stepped into his place. The wounds of losing everyone dear to him slowly staunched, slowly scarred over. 

And now, here he was. Standing in front of the same — almost the same — ship. There were more lifeboats, and a giant brightly-painted sign proclaimed alterations to the decks. It was obscene, he thought distantly, that the signs were so jovial.

No way back, after this. If he stepped on board, there will be no way back. Not for the Percival Graves everyone in New York knew. Whether the sea took him as well or not, he was leaving his life behind, never to return.    
  


“Come on, we sure don’t want it to sail without us.” For all he’d jumped, and his face was pale-bleached, there wasn’t any hitch or sob in Percival’s voice, no horror or fear that Newt could find in his expression with darting glances, so he breathed out in relief, as they walked onboard. 

Despite having been a troop transport and ramming submarines (which was proudly noted on a small plaque in one of the lounges) during the war, it was still a very,  _ very  _ luxurious ship. Freshly renovated, its interiors gleamed in the warm light; even the second class seemed as good as many first class venues on other ships. 

Percival was looking over the promotional leaflet for their journey as they made their way through the ship to their cabin — second class, bunk bed, convertible sofa, two basins with running hot and cold water available — and marveled at how on earth no-majs managed to stuff so many things into a ship and still make it move. Theoretically, of course, he knew how. No-maj technologies were simple to notice and acknowledge on a basic level, if you live among them your whole life. But comprehending it all was a completely different story. He mused over the fact that the leaflet advertised a swimming pool and a complex of turkish baths — alas, first-class only.    
  


They left their things in the cabin and decided to take a walk. It was foggy, but through the shreds of the blue sky the sun was leaving bright light spots over the wooden flooring of the deck, gathering lively companies around them. The rumble of conversations, the laughter and the sound of footsteps formed an atmosphere like no other, uplifting, cheerful even. New York slowly melted away on the horizon, and with it all bridges to the past burned away, leaving no trace. There was a haunting thing hovering over him that Percival couldn’t seem to help, some creeping sadness, but with it came a hopeful anticipation for the things to come, and he wanted to see the same in the eyes of his soulmate…

But Newt didn’t look at him, acting even more shy and fidgety than usual. Didn’t like the crowd, didn’t feel well, surrounded by people, and it showed. 

For a moment Percival thought of abandoning their efforts to take a walk and just go back; they could tend to Newt’s creatures and talk. It would be safe, there in the case, no ghosts at his heels. But then… he wanted to see the ship, in all its glory, remember every inch of it. There was something loosening in him, at the notion of seeing the sights his loved ones might have enjoyed. 

Perhaps — Perhaps a glass of whiskey would put Newt at ease? Help him relax a bit, let go of the anxiety he was feeling.

If it had been an American ship they wouldn’t have found any spirits, but it was British, so they probably served alcohol in the lounge, or might, once they’d entered international waters. 

Couldn’t hurt to check. 

Yet, Percival found himself at a loss for words. Some strange sort of shyness overtook him, as if shyness was something that could slip off Newt’s skin and slide over his. As if it was akin to illness, a horribly contagious one. Or, like suppressed magic, which at first could lay dormant for a very long time, and then break out in a black tornado, sweeping away everything in its path. 

Thoughts about the obscurus were difficult to bear. Shameful, sorrowful — bitter. After all, he had been personally in charge of the investigation for more than four months when Grindelwald happened to cross his path. It had seemed — he’d thought they were narrowing in on a solution, he had an informant among the Second Salemers, and then ... 

His failure was obvious. To overlook a young wizard turning into an obscurus right under his nose was almost a crime in itself, it was enough for him to resign on the spot. What could he do now, except drown in regrets? Even if he left his country behind, the past couldn’t simply flare up, burn out and disappear like ashes, scattering in the wind. There was no other choice but to accept that he made a mistake. A mistake that cost him, cost the city... most of all, cost that boy with the dark, clever eyes, who had wanted to be a part of the magical community so badly.

Looking at the dark water overboard, Percival congratulated himself on the fact that nearly no-one depended on his actions anymore. That he finally was free from any true responsibility. 

Those thoughts ought to have been joyful, or at least a relief, but they were far from it. Losing control was painful, losing his position and standing in the society — just as well. He felt like he let his late family down. He knew, were they still here, his parents would just stare at him in silent disapproval, not a word would pass between them. His sister would have been on his side, always protective, but even she would know that he failed them all, and badly. That he was that black sheep marring the snowy white of the flock, who had cast a shadow of shame and weakness over their noble family name. 

For a second he thought it silly — thinking about how his relatives would have judged him. Like they had sensibilities to offend, any longer. Needless to say, he managed the judging just fine on his own. No need for a full complement of Graves to accomplish that. And then he just hated it, the ease with which he found that bitterness, but couldn’t banish the dark thoughts from his mind, losing the fight against his consciousness over and over again.

“Do you want to grab something to eat?” Newt asked suddenly, in the silence between them that had turned strained. “Or maybe a drink?”

It was a bit unexpected, but — to escape the choking weight of his own thoughts — not unwelcome. Percival gladly accepted.    
  


The restaurant they ended up in was the very definition of ‘fine dining’. Everything was stylish, all bright-white tablecloths and crystal chandeliers, but contrary to Percival’s concerns, Newt didn’t seem to feel uncomfortable here. Sure, he still didn’t look anyone in the eye, and he stumbled with words a bit, just like he always did, but overall… he didn’t seem to mind places like this. 

They didn’t talk beyond meager table niceties, but the silence that set in was comfortable again, relaxing even. It allowed Percival to let go of the depressive thoughts he had, enough to come up with a topic for one more conversation. He wants to know more about Newt, so, why not ask him straight up?

“Tell me about yourself,” he prompted, but before Newt had a chance to react, added: “But not about your creatures, I want to know more about you.”

Newt had no idea what to say. His beasts were his life, he couldn’t imagine it without them. So, what could he tell? Apart from that he was afraid of office jobs from early childhood, from the fact that he was expelled from Hogwarts for something he didn’t do, from the sob-story about how he liked a girl who turned out to be his brother’s Melody? 

It might have been the wine they drank that set Newt to talking about things he otherwise would have never, but now, once he started, could he really stop his rambling? He had to be honest with his soulmate, didn’t he? Had to tell him, that… that Tina likes him, but he thinks that now there is just no point trying to build any sort of relationship with her; because she wasn’t his part of an Ensemble. Just like it happened before. Because even if they ended up together, she would eventually leave, just like Leta did. And even if it wouldn’t hurt, even if he was prepared for it to happen, meeting her again afterwards would be the most awkward thing in the whole world. 

Newt wanted to apologize for telling all that; it was probably not what Percival wanted to hear, but before he could do that…

“I don’t think she has a soulmate waiting,” Percival told him, matter-of-fact. “I’ve never heard her play, and she doesn’t seem to have magic in her words, the one lyricals usually have. So, if you like her, you should probably give it a go.”

“Wouldn’t you mind that?” Newt asked timidly, struggling with it for some reason, unable to process the calm of Percival’s demeanor. He hadn’t expected to hear gossip from Percival, nor the encouragement at starting a romance with his ex-mentee. 

“Why should I mind?”

Silence followed and lingered, as Newt hurriedly looked away, trying to think of an answer, but there wasn’t any. No explanations. Just the feeling that hearing such advice from a soulmate was a bit wrong. He had to remind himself that communication wasn’t his best skill. That if he felt that something someone said was wrong, doesn’t necessarily mean that it was. 

Lost in thought, Newt paid no attention to how they left the restaurant — or how they ended up in an empty hallway, where a piano stood. He eyed Percival curiously, wondering if he was going to play, and if… the thing he played would be their heartsong. It’s not like Newt didn’t like the music, but he knew that he would have that haunting urge to sing along, and together it all didn’t exactly sound as joyous as Newt would have liked. But he really, really wouldn’t mind the music, just had to keep from singing, that’s all. 

Newt watched as Percival hesitantly lifted the lid off the piano and settled down, caressing ivory keys before... for the longest two minutes nothing happened; there was only silence, albeit a relative one, as chatter and laughter from other parts of the ship could still be heard. And then, finally, the first note was played. 

Newt knew instantly that it was exactly what he hoped it wouldn’t be, and leaned on the piano with a quiet sigh, preparing to overcome his urge to sing, and yet… the melody was somehow different. The sad feeling which came with it the last time was no longer there. The melody shifted to be more light-hearted, quicker and smoother — lovely, in one word — and at the same time utterly wrong, foreign, forced. Newt saw how Percival furrowed his brows, as if struggling to keep it the way it had absolutely no chance to be, as he tried to play on.

Newt looked away, pretending to be trying to spot something in the distance. Whatever Percival had in mind as he tried to somehow arrange their song differently, it just didn’t work, didn’t sound the way it should have. And although Newt clearly remembered their promise about writing a new song together, something that sounded so false was certainly no way to do it. 

“I’d rather you didn’t play at all,” he didn’t mean to say it outloud, but the words still escaped him and now there was no way to take them back. 

In the silence that followed, Percival stared at him with an expression Newt could hardly read. He was about to apologise — in case his words ended up hurting, which, really they had to, he knew they did — but had little chance to, as his soulmate blinked, his stare turning from unreadable to defiant, and he started playing again.

Newt didn’t recognise the piece at first; it wasn’t something he heard every day, but then…a memory tickled, and yes. He knew it. Only by chance, but he knew what it was. 

But it felt like Percival was sure he knew it, as it suited them both so well in this exact situation, where they had this… this problem with their own song. With Newt’s part of it. 

Because it was a piano duet. The first one of the Six Morceaux, Op.11, Barcarolle, by Rachmaninoff, a composer few knew of among wizards, whom muggles usually recognised as a pianist more than a composer, but whose music was unique in a way Newt couldn’t explain by words. The fact that Percival knew it, knew enough of it to start playing on the spot was… incredible, for lack of a better word. 

His soulmate’s stare seemed to burn; Newt was never one for prolonged eye contact, and now it was more uncomfortable than ever; he lowered his eyes, his head, his shoulders; submitted. With a few unsure steps he crossed what little space was there between them, and meekly sat down near Percival, hands instantly over the keys. 

That felt  _ right _ ; playing a piece together, even though it wasn’t their own, it still made connection they shared obvious; unrehearsed, it still was perfectly in sync. What’s even better, no words burnt in Newt’s throat, it was a perfectly comfortable music for him to play; even though most of the pieces in this cycle were emotional, overflowed with emotion, really, he felt detached from them, didn’t feel the burn of it inside his heart. He smiled through most of them, stealing glances at Percival, who it turn, didn’t look back at him, not once, while they played.

And when the final chord sounded, when it was over, his Melody just stood up and left, without saying a word.

Newt didn’t go after him, knowing exactly the reason behind that behaviour, that exact silent treatment. “I’d rather you didn’t play at all” - how could he even thought of saying something horrible like this to the part of an Ensemble whose  _ purpose  _ was in playing? He knew he would be really hurt if Percival ever shushed his singing. 

He didn’t know what he would ever have to do to make up for it. 

Surely he could pretend he didn’t say it at all. That it never happened, but…

He knew how that would have felt. For Percival. For him. So he has to find a way to say sorry once again, to watch his tongue from this point on. And now…

There was nothing for him to do other than return to their cabin, empty, silent, and descend into his suitcase, to plunge into routine, but no less dear to his heart affairs; everyone of his creatures had to be fed, talked with, cared after. And then… then he had to rewrite and correct the descriptions of each beast in his notes until late at night, because the publisher asked to make them as concise as possible, but he was so desperate not to miss a single detail!..

When he gets out of the suitcase it’s already late at night, he finds Percival sleeping. And in his sleep, he looked so calm ... the wrinkle between the eyebrows was smoothed out, a frowning expression disappeared from his face. How Newt wished to see the same calm expression of his soulmate’s face during the day… he wanted to do everything to make it possible, yet guilt curled inside his chest, as if telling him that he would fail, considering what he said to his Melody today. Still… 

“Everything will be fine.” he quietly whispered and nodded to himself. 

Yes, it will. He just needed to wait till morning and explain why he said what he said. 


End file.
